Cables to Aces
by Zettel
Summary: What if Sarah had not shut down after the Incident, the kiss in *Imported Hard Salami*? What if Chuck had decided to go all Piranha on the Intersect? Assume the canon up until the kiss and the conversation immediately after it. Things go very much their own way after that.
1. Prologue: Emphases

A/N So begins an _AU/What If_ Chuck story. Assume the canon up until The Incident (i.e., the kiss in front of the bomb in _Imported Hard Salami_ and the conversation that immediately follows it). Things go their own way from there.

Don't own Chuck. No money made.

* * *

PROLOGUE: Emphases

* * *

 _Come shyly to the main question_

 _There is dishonor in these wires_

 _You will first hesitate then repeat_

 _Then sing louder_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace_ 5

* * *

"I kissed him." Pause. Pause. Pause.

" _I_ kissed him." Stop. Silence.

Sarah Walker reached up finally and turned off the camera. It was all fine and good recording these mission logs. They helped her to focus; sometimes they allowed her to recapture details that slipped her mind—although that was rare. She had the kind of mind that seized on and kept hold of details.

The camera could not respond to her, though. It just looked at her. And listened. In a way. It was a tool, not a friend. Her life was crowded with those, overcrowded with them, and too many of them were actual people. Atcual people who were tools, not friends.

Damn.

She needed to talk to _someone_. _She_ needed to talk to someone.

She dug the burner phone out of the small safe in her room and dialed the one number on it: Carina's number, the one for her burner phone with only Sarah's number on it.

The phone rang and rang. No answer. No surprise, really. Carina's evenings were notoriously full—of a mission or of someone. No surprise, really, but it meant that Sarah now got to talk to a machine again. Another tool, not a friend.

"Carina…I…need to talk to you. It's…kind of an emergency. Not a dangerous matter…maybe. I don't know. Call me." She ended the call.

She looked up again at the camera. She thought maybe she should replay the recording she had just made. She could listen to herself say those words again. She could listen to them while she re-lived the event…the incident…they described. Even referring to the event made her pulse race, her heart wobble, her whole body glow.

Maybe she _was_ in danger. Maybe she was in the worst danger of her life. Could a French kiss—could that French kiss—be her Waterloo, her _coup de' tat_? What was that stupid palindrome: "Able was I ere I saw Elba"? I palindrome I.

The camera was her mirror, her scanner, darkly. Rewatching herself was not going to show her anything she did not know. Her problem was not the immediate past. Like the distant past, that was over and done with. Her problem was now—and tomorrow.

She couldn't sit any longer. Not one second. She got up and slipped on a jacket, donned a Dodger's cap, stuffed the burner phone in the pocket, and fled her apartment. She felt closed in, claustrophobic, and the green around her was the outward and visible sign of the low-grade nausea that had crept up on her. Sometimes the color of the place made it seem more like an externalized after-image than an actual room. It never seemed like home.

When she got outside she paused. Then she stopped. Where was she going? Abruptly, she started walking again. _Where was she going?_

She thought suddenly about that strange state she found herself in many mornings, that state in which she had no desire to get out of her bed, none at all, and then, _mirabile dictu_! (sort of), she was _up_ and beginning her day, as though she had been airlifted from beneath the covers.

She felt like that now. She did not know that she had any desire to go _anywhere_ and yet she was up and going _somewhere_.

She got into her Porsche. She cranked the engine and reversed out of her parking spot. She drove. After a few minutes, she knew where she was going. She was driving to Chuck. She could not stop herself, any more than she had stopped herself from kissing him earlier.

I _kissed_ him.

She remained in her altered state all the way to Chuck's apartment complex. After she parked, though, her autopilot disengaged. She paused. She stopped.

Her nausea was gone. Her heart was still wobbling.

She sat in her car and looked into the courtyard of the apartment complex Chuck lived in with his sister, Ellie, and her boyfriend, Captain Awesome. The window of Chuck's room, a window that doubled as a door, a.k.a. the Morgan Door, was dark. No wonder. It was very late.

A window that doubled as a door. The image suddenly struck her, its odd juxtaposition of clarity and opacity.

She knew that she made a better door than a window. She was all opacity, no clarity. But Chuck seemed to have the power to turn her from door to window or to make her a door that was also a window. He not only could see through her, he saw _her_ and made her see herself. She had spent her life locked out of her own life, knocking on a door she never answered. But when Chuck was with her, the door became a window, an unlocked window, as easy to open as the window to Chuck's room.

She complained about the Morgan Door to him—he was in danger, after all, and should _lock his damn window_ —but he refused to listen.

As she sat in the dark, she suddenly knew why that was. Her heart was never in the command. The Morgan Door was a symbol for her.

She liked knowing that the door/window to Chuck's room (Chuck's heart) was open, unlocked. She had never expected to act on that knowledge, not exactly, but she liked knowing that she could. He was leaving it open to her. He refused to lock it because he _was_ listening. He heard what she was really saying, really not saying.

 _Damn him_. Didn't he understand that someone like her, someone who had lived as she had lived, was terrified by such kindness? Sometimes Chuck's gentleness toward her was brutal.

She jumped in her seat when her burner phone vibrated.

"Walker?"

"Carina."

"I was expecting this call. I assume you are in the car, outside of Chuckles' apartment?"

Sarah pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it like it a traitor. Did Carina have a way to track her? How could she know? She heard Carina's voice, small and distant, coming from the phone she held at arm's length.

"Walker? Walker? Are you there?"

She put the phone back to her ear. "Yes, Carina, I am here—and I am here—or _there_ I guess. At Chuck's." That name, both doom and dream. "How did you know?"

Carina was silent for a few seconds. "You know that I tried to seduce him, don't you? I was, at first, testing him for you, to see if he was serious about you too?"

Sarah pocketed her outrage. "What do you mean, 'too'?"

"I knew you were serious about him."

"You did? So you wanted to make sure he was serious about me?"

"Well, yes. But I would be lying if I said that I did it disinterestedly. I was kinda hoping he would allow me to seduce him, even embrace the seduction."

"Carina…"

"You know I like to take what you want, Walker."

Sarah glared at Carina, even though she was far away and nowhere in sight. "Yes. I mean, I know you have done that to me before, but what I mean by 'wanted' then was not what I mean by it now, Carina. Those were just competitions. The point was never the guy, it was seeing if he would choose you or choose me.

"I never competed with you for anyone you _really_ wanted. And even when I won, usually the loser got the spoils. I have never shared your taste for one-nighters, even if I have had a few."

"I know, Walker. That was always part of the fun for me. It was win-win- _win_. I won and got the guy (win), or I lost and got the guy (win), and I got you to play my favorite game, even though it wasn't yours (win)." Carina indulged in a breezy laugh.

"I knew you really wanted him, Walker. I knew it. That's why I tried to seduce him."

"Do you know how twisted that sounds, Carina. You are my friend."

Carina stopped laughing. "I _am_ your friend. But, Walker, _spies don't fall in love_. Chuck was a danger to you—a clear and present danger. If he had let me seduce him, you would have been out of danger. You wouldn't have looked at him anymore the way you were looking at him. I was trying to save you, Walker. Not to win a competition."

Sarah said nothing.

"Look, Sarah, you are the one who called me tonight, talking about 'emergencies' and 'maybe dangerous matters'. "

"I know, Carina." Her glare died down.

"'Spies don't fall in love.' What is that, Carina. Is it a rule? It is not in any handbook. We all just say it." She paused, stopped. Then she plunged forward.

"If it is a rule, it is confused, because no one can actually follow it. You fall in love or you don't. You don't get a choice in the matter. If you are a spy and you don't fall in love, you do what the rule says, but you aren't _following_ it. You are just lucky—or unlucky." Sarah paused, stopped. She swallowed hard.

"Even you, Carina. You haven't fallen in love, but not because you are following some rule. It just hasn't happened to you—yet."

"Hey! Don't wish that on me, Walker. I like getting lucky, but not that way. That would be getting _unlucky_. Like you, stalker girl."

"I'm not stalking him, Carina. Something happened. There was an incident. A kiss."

Carina's gasp was barely audible. "You mean, _something happened_ like 'mistakes were made'?"

Sarah put her free hand on the steering wheel, squeezing and releasing it. "Yes. No. I mean…"

"Well, Walker?"

"Well, I didn't kiss him by mistake. But…"

"But _what?_ Did you kiss him by _accident_? You just tripped and lipped him? Landed with yours on his?"

"No. No! I kissed him, Carina. _I_ kissed him. We were in front of what we thought was a bomb. It turned out not to be a bomb. At least, it did not explode. Tech guys are, I guess, still working on it, because I haven't heard from Casey. I left him there with it, them."

"So you kissed Chuck. You did. Not by mistake, not by accident. Did you kiss him on purpose? You thought you were going to die?"

"Yeah. Yes. Yes to both."

"So…this was a kiss on the gallows, as it were. Would you have died happy?"

Sarah squeezed the steering wheel hard as she relived the kiss, a handhold against a vortex of response.

It was true that in the immediate aftermath of the kiss, panic had been her primary response. _She did not lose control_. She had lost control twice. Once, in kissing him at all, and twice, in the desire that hurricaned through her during the kiss. If there had not been a timer, she and Chuck would have been goners—not blown apart by the bomb, but blown together by that hurricane, unclothed and lost in each other. They would not have been able to come back from that kiss. It would have led them on and on. She was now back in the hurricane.

Sarah knew Carina could hear the flush that overtook her, even as she spoke her answer in a still, small voice. "Yes. God, yes."

"And so that's why you finally made the night drive I knew you would make if you stayed in Snoresville. You are ready to take the plunge or to let him, I guess. A little night swimming?"

As usual, Carina's colorful language managed to be puzzlingly both off-color and on target.

"I wouldn't put it that way, but, yes, I am here. Still in the car, but here."

"How does this work, though, Sarah? I mean you could just go all seduction-school on him and let him think that is all it is, while you get what you want. Itch scratched, maybe a lot, and no one in charge will stop it. Graham probably expects it or won't object to it. Beckman's harder to predict, but I doubt she'd give you an order where Graham refuses to give you one. Casey's probably been wondering why you just haven't done it long ago."

"No. I'm not sure Casey still wonders that, exactly. He wouldn't stop me, I guess. But I don't think he'd approve. He wouldn't voice his disapproval. But he certainly wouldn't be my cheerleader. I think he respects Chuck. He wishes he didn't, and that's one reason he torments Chuck. Men like Chuck are not supposed to compel the respect of men like Casey.

"Besides, Carina, you know that I have never slept with a mark or an asset."

Carina listened in silence. She and Sarah had gone around on this point before. Sarah was not judging Carina, and Carina knew that. Still, Carina found Sarah's principled reluctance about this hard to understand.

Sarah did not want to have that discussion again, not that general discussion, anyway. She wasn't debating an abstract issue over drinks. She was a few dozen yards from a man she kissed earlier in the day, and whose kiss was still playing havoc with her. She was seriously contemplating… _what?_

"Carina, he won't, he wouldn't…sleep with me if he thought he was being seduced. He wouldn't do it."

"Oh, come on, Sarah. I have seen him look at you!"

Sarah smacked the steering wheel. "Well, Carina, then you had eyes to see but didn't see! How does he look at me, Carina? _How_?"

Carina began her answer and then paused. Stopped. "Oh."

"Goddamn right, 'Oh'. He looks at me as if I were the only woman he had ever seen, as if seeing me—just _seeing_ me—is an answer to a constant prayer. Does he want me? Yes, desperately. I knew that before kissing him, but his…entire…response to the kiss testified to it.

" _He won't take less than all of me, Carina_."

"What does that mean, Walker?"

"I'm not sure I know what it means, I just know it is true. It is a compliment. The truest one I've ever been paid. It's…a curse too. Or at least it feels that way from _my_ side of it." Sarah was quiet for a while and Carina waited.

"I do not know that there's any more of me than the spy, Carina. He has boundless faith that there is. It would kill me to take that faith from him. I want to be the woman he thinks I am…"

"And?" Carina's voice was gentle.

" _And_ it'll take time to become that woman. _And_ I don't think I can become her unless I am with him. _And_ I don't know how to be with him, because my job won't allow it and because I've never been in love before."

"And there it is," Carina deadpanned into Sarah's ear.

Sarah gasped as she replayed her own words.

She had never used that word to express her feelings for Chuck, not even in her heart of hearts. Now, she had just said it aloud, to Carina.

To Sarah's surprise, Carina left the word alone. "If you aren't going to just sleep with him, then what are you going to do? Date him, really date him, but covertly, so that your cover is handler/asset and not boyfriend/girlfriend? Romantic double-agents? Or, ask permission to be a couple? Run? This could cost you, Sarah, ruin your career. Are you prepared to risk a decade of professional achievement to become a housewife in the 'burbs?"

Sarah took her hand from the steering wheel and pushed her cap back. She exhaled slowly. "I don't know, Carina. But that's just it. I don't _know_. Maybe. I'd never have imagined saying that just a few months ago. Things have changed. I've changed."

 _I cannot keep washing the blood from my hands, not even with Graham's assurances that it will wash out._

 _I sang lullabies to a baby held close in my arms._

 _I have been accepted into a family._

 _I met a boy._

Sarah blushed at her own thoughts. Carina was speaking. "…so I don't see a scenario for making this work, Sarah. You should start the car and leave. I'm sorry but that is the smart play, girl. Spies don't fall in love."

"Yes, they do, Carina." Sarah's voice ran wet and warm into the phone even as her tears ran wet and warm down her cheeks. "Thanks, Carina."

"Call me tomorrow, Sarah, with a sit-rep."

"Ok."

Sarah ended the call. She wiped the tears off the phone against her pants leg, and then put it back in her jacket pocket. She pulled her cap back down. She started the Porsche. She looked back across the courtyard. As she stared at the Morgan Door, a light came on. She paused. She stopped.

He turned on a light.

 _He_ turned on a light.

She turned off the engine.


	2. Chapter 1: Kutabare, Mr Roboto!

A/N 1 The mood set (Prologue), the plot starts rolling.

Don't own Chuck or any product mentioned. No money, no money.

* * *

CHAPTER 1: Kutabare, Mr. Roboto!

* * *

 _The flash of falling metals. The shower of parts, cameras, guns of experience in the waste heaven of deadly rays. Cataclysm of designs..._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 85_

* * *

Chuck Bartowski was in his natural posture: seated, working on his computer. His fingers were a blur. He needed to get into Stanford's system. He had other hacking tasks to perform after that. It would be a long night, another one.

He was surviving on as little sleep as possible. He wasn't just burning the candle at both ends; he was burning the candle itself, the whole length of the candle, all at once. He did not have world enough or time to waste. He did have a stack of cold Red Bulls in the refrigerator and a pot of inky coffee on the kitchen counter.

He needed to get into Stanford's library server, and maybe into other records. He had remembered something—two things, actually. He hadn't flashed. He had just finally _remembered_.

He stopped typing for a second and looked up at the picture of himself and Sarah that she had taken at Halloween. She was dressed as Princess Leia.

 _She is more beautiful than Leia_.

That thought made Chuck excited and a little guilty. He had been faithful to Leia in his imagination since he was a boy. No longer. Sarah had wholly eclipsed Leia.

Chuck's mind drifted to yesterday when Sarah had kissed him.

 _She_ kissed him.

Sarah had, predictably, more or less run away from him after she kissed him. He had been so befuddled he had not given chase. He should have. They needed to talk. She would not talk to him, though. He had left her a few voicemail messages. She had not responded.

But _she_ kissed him.

They both knew that. She had revealed herself finally. The problem would be getting her to own the revelation, to acknowledge that the kiss was, in fact, a kiss—a kiss intended by and initiated by her, and wholly romantic, passionate beyond anything Chuck had ever experienced.

He felt his body temperature rise. He swung his head from side to side, trying to clear it. He had work to do. He adjusted the picture so that the light from his lamp did not obscure it. Smiling, he re-engaged his fingers and they again blurred.

* * *

Sarah reached for the latch of the Morgan Door. She paused and stopped.

She could see Chuck seated at his computer, working. She had seen him work on phones and computers; she had watched him play games. She had never seen this Chuck before—the intensity of his focus, the assurance in his movements.

A memory flashed through her mind: Chuck hunched over a computer in a hotel ballroom, preventing an explosion by using a virus borrowed from a porn site. She _had_ seen this Chuck before, she realized, but then, understandably, she had been focused on the bomb and the possible explosion, and had not had time to admire the means of everyone's salvation.

This Chuck, not just confident, but even masterful, was a Chuck that few had ever seen. Seeing this Chuck now, after the kiss earlier in the day, caused Sarah's already wayward pulse to spike again. She turned and looked back at her parked Porsche. She returned her gaze to Chuck. She opened the window and stepped soundlessly into Chuck's room.

"Chuck."

Chuck jumped. He tilted his desk chair too far back as he did and it spilled him unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Chuck!" Sarah rushed to him. He had gathered himself onto all fours and was looking up at her, stunned. She took his hands and helped him to his feet.

* * *

He stood and, just as she reflexively started to remove her hands from his, he moved his hands so that hers were in his. He tightened his grip, not so much that she could not easily remove her hands, but enough to make it clear that he wanted them to stay where they were.

They stood like that, staring into each other's eyes, forever, for a few seconds.

"Sarah."

Chuck could see the same panic in her eyes he saw after they had kissed. But he saw something else too.

"Sarah, why are you here? A mission?"

"Chuck, be quiet…We don't want to wake Ellie and Devon."

"They aren't here." He dropped his voice, then realized what he had said, and went on at normal volume. "Doctor convention thingy. They're out of town for a couple of days. It's just me."

"Oh."

"So, Sarah, why are you here?"

Sarah looked around the room, at the Tron poster, at the computer, at the lamp, at everything but Chuck's eyes.

His bed was rumpled but still made. He must have rested there but without ever really going to bed. She slowly pulled her hands from his and sat down on the bed. Chuck leaned against his desk.

Chuck watched her kindly. She looked back finally. He was wearing a red Stanford shirt and pajama bottoms. He seemed puzzled and hesitantly excited. His normal sheepishness around her was missing. He seemed…comfortable…still, just as he had after the kiss.

"Sarah?"

"Ok, Chuck, ok. I'm here because…because…I had to see you."

Chuck half-frowned. "Sarah, that's a refusal to answer masquerading as an answer. A Walker specialty. Why did you have to see me?"

Sarah had thought that there was a gulf between saying things and doing things, between words and deeds. But now she knew: saying some words _is_ doing something. Some sayings are actions. Some words are deeds. _I love you, Chuck. I do._

"We need to talk."

Chuck folded his arms and waited. He was not going to bail her out, talk for her.

Sarah smoothed out some wrinkles in Chuck's comforter. Then she sat and stared at her hands. Chuck did not change posture, did not speak. He just waited.

"That…kiss…We need…I need…We need to know what to do about it."

"I have started doing things about it, Sarah."

"What do you mean?"

"I broke it off with Lou, officially."

"Why?"

"C'mon, Sarah. You were one half of that kiss. And you could feel the other half."

"Oh."

"I can't kiss you like that and be dating someone else. I've also left voicemails on your phone. I wanted to talk too. I just didn't expect you to want to. I hoped…but didn't expect…"

"I'm sorry, Chuck. I'm not good with words, not like you. The more I need them, the farther they are from me."

Chuck was silent for a while. When Sarah glanced up at him, she could see that he was trying to reach a decision.

"Look, Sarah. If it helps, nothing you say or do here, now, is being recorded. No video. No audio. We are not bug-free, but right now the bugs are deaf and blind."

"What's that mean, Chuck?"

"I hacked into all of Casey's feeds. I'm running a loop of myself asleep, snoring at a mildly annoying volume."

"How? How can you do that?"

Chuck laughed softly. She was again struck by the fact that his usual hint of sheepishness, of passivity, was missing. His skin seemed suddenly to fit him, suddenly comfortable.

"Because I am the Piranha, Sarah."

"The _what?_ What does a fish have…wait… _The Piranha?_ The...hacker? You—Chuck Bartowski—you are a legendary hacker." Her inflection hung undecided between declarative and interrogative.

"So you _have_ heard of me?"

"I've heard of the Piranha. Not a criminal exactly. But brilliant. A prankster. A threat. CIA tech guys talk about him like he's Merlin. That's you, Chuck?"

He grinned—now suddenly sheepish. But it passed.

"Yeah, me. It started as a joke. I just wanted to test myself, to find out what I was capable of. I mean, even before Stanford, I had an…affinity for computers, hardware and soft. I started trying to hack into systems, databases. It became a game. Until I started hacking government databases. I never took anything, not even information. It was like…Well, like Roald Amundsen and the South Pole."

"Huh?"

"I didn't want to take anything or claim anything. I just wanted to, you know, plant a flag; prove that I could _get there_ , like Amundsen and the Pole."

"Why have you never mentioned this, Chuck?"

"Fear. Bryce never knew I was the Piranha. I was afraid even in college to tell anyone; I knew that I'd pushed too far and that people were looking for the Piranha. I buried him and never really looked back.

"Then I unknowingly downloaded the Intersect. Suddenly, the CIA and NSA are after me and everyone thinks there must be some nefarious reason why Bryce sent the Intersect to me. I figured, given all that, it was probably best to keep my secret identity secret. Knowing that the Piranha had the Intersect would have caused...ripples...had consequences."

"So how long have you been working against us, Casey and me, the government?"

"Not against you exactly, and not for long. But I finally got motivated. _You_ motivated me."

"What do you mean, I motivated you?"

"When you told me, under the influence of that truth serum, that there was nothing between us. That crushed me."

Sarah dropped her gaze to the floor.

"Sarah, saving the world—that's cool and all, but it's your gig. You're amazing. You actually do it. You save the world…a lot. It's not my gig, especially not like this. The US government thinks it owns me, Sarah. Me, a person and a citizen, the government claims me as _property_. That was bothering me more and more.

"I'm a patriot. I love my country. I love it right or wrong. But that does not mean it _cannot do_ wrong. It can. I am not just being treated discourteously, I am being wronged, morally wronged, by the government.

"I am not a machine; I am a man. Do you know that episode of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ —"The Measure of a Man"? Data, the android, has to prove that he is not property but a sentient being? No. Well, anyway. I am not an android. I don't have to prove I am a sentient being, a man. But the government wants to mechanize me."

"I'm so sorry about all that, Chuck. I am. I'm so sorry that the Intersect, and that I and my life ever came into your life…"

"But I'm not sorry about that, Sarah, not about you or about your life coming into mine. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me. The Intersect is the worst (I think it is even worse than _Jill_ ), but you are the best."

"So how did my telling you there was no future for us lead you to exhume the Piranha?"

"When I got home, I tried to process everything that had happened. Your confession, Ellie's almost dying, my predicament. I realized then that I needed to break up with you, or, anyway, really to put an end to our unreal relationship. But I also needed to break up with the government, to fight back, to reclaim my life. I needed to become the Piranha again.

"While you guys were, uh, occupied vetting Lou, I started working. It wasn't hard, honestly. I expected…more. I mean, you guys know I work in an _electronics store_ , don't you? And, didn't I tell you—and Carina—that I knew stuff about surveillance cameras and such like when we were at Peyman Alahi's place? I almost have a degree in computer engineering from Stanford. Did no one actually look at my transcripts? They didn't throw me out for not being good, really good, at what I was studying. C'mon, do you guys really not get it? _Scholarship-_ to-Stanford guy. Engineer."

Sarah grinned after a moment. "The US government has made a habit of misunderstanding and underestimating you, Chuck. I guess I've been guilty of that a little, too."

"No, Sarah, not really. Look, it wasn't just because you told me we had no future that I decided I had to change mine. It was because you made me feel, ever since you got here, like I _could_ change my future.

"I just hadn't gotten to the tipping point until you told me what you told me. I was willing to put up with it, Sarah, all of it, if there was a possibility of us. Add in that I have been, well, passive, hibernating, for five years. It was easier to do nothing. It was my habit, sad to say.

"At first, it was all so overwhelming. The Intersect, _you_ , Casey, Graham and Beckman, bad guys, _you_ …I couldn't find my feet with it all and just stumbled around. And I'd been stumbling around, really, before all of that happened to me. I had made stumbling my gait. But when you basically told me _No_ , I stopped stumbling and got busy. I meant what I said in the Weinerlicious. When I took the serum, my life didn't flash before my eyes. A list did. And although it was not the first item on the list…," he paused, and Sarah looked up at him, her face beclouded, "it was on the list several times: _Escape from the government. Get the damned Intersect out of your head_.

"So I had coffee with Lou and then I went home and started working."

Sarah sat still, wringing her hands. "But, Chuck, I still am CIA. I am an agent of the government. I have duties. My duty is to report all of this. Report the Piranha. Report you. Why're you telling me this?"

Chuck stepped toward her, holding out his hand. Four beats of silence, a full measure of their 4/4 time, passed before she slowly put her hand in his. Chuck waited for her eyes to rise to meet his too. Their blue shone beneath the blue of the Dodgers cap. Then he suddenly pulled her up and to him, her body against his, and he kissed her.

 _He_ kissed her.

She put a hand on his chest, intending to push him away, but then she twisted the hand deep into the fabric of his t-shirt, locking him in place. She kissed him back.

 _She_ kissed him back.

Her cap fell off her head.

The kiss stopped time and filled space.

When it ended, Chuck stepped back and so did she. Her lips were swollen; she could feel it. His were too; she could see it. They were both gasping for breath. Sarah looked at him and did not look away. He looked at her and did not look away.

"So, Sarah, why are you here?"

* * *

A/N 2 This second kiss registered a 999.8 on the giant meter hidden on Uranus that measures the perfection of every human act of love, breaking a record that desperately needed breaking.


	3. Chapter 2: Tron Legacy

A/N Expect the chapters of this story to hang around 2000-3000 words. This one is as short as they will get.

I tend to write quickly once I get absorbed in a project, but I expect this story to take some time and for there to be longer periods between updates. I have other book projects (fiction, poetry, philosophy) that have to be finished, so this cannot be my focal project. Also, I head home tomorrow for Thanksgiving. There may not be another update until after Thanksgiving.

* * *

CHAPTER 2: Tron Legacy

* * *

 _Weep, weep little day_

 _For your Father's bone_

 _All the expeditions_

 _Dig him one._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace_ 7

* * *

"I am here, Chuck, because I kissed you and I don't know what to do about it…Except, evidently, to do it again."

Chuck grinned with one corner of his mouth. "So you do know what to do about it?"

Sarah grinned back for a microsecond. The panic in her eyes was still there, but the something else that Chuck had seen was now the dominant presence.

Sarah bent down and retrieved her hat, but she did not put it on. She sighed and sat back down on Chuck's bed. He leaned back against the desk again.

"So, Sarah, are you going to report me? Is that what you are going to do about our kisses?"

Sarah sat her cap down on the bed beside her. Then she dropped her head in her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. She sighed again.

Chuck waited for a minute, then he turned back to his computer and sat down.

Sarah continued to study the floor of the room. Chuck began to peck away at his keyboard, gaining speed.

He heard Sarah stand up behind him. He felt her hand on his neck. She rubbed it gently.

"That's _not_ what I am going to do about our kisses, Chuck. I am not going to report you. You are not doing anything wrong. You are undoing a wrong." She paused.

"I'm tired of being on the wrong side of all this. I'm tired of being on the wrong side of you." She stopped.

After a moment, she leaned down and kissed the top of his head and then ran her fingers through his loose curls. She made a sound of deep satisfaction.

"I have wanted to do that…for so _damn_ long."

She moved her hand back to his neck and resumed her gentle rubbing. "What are you doing, Chuck? Besides giving me a minute to think, to process—and thanks for that, by the way."

"Welcome. Sooooo….I've been reading all of Professor Fleming's emails. I started with his email exchanges with Bryce, but it looks like they predictably never talked CIA with each other by email. They never mentioned me in an email. But then it hit me. I started looking to see if they had any email correspondents in common. Of course, they did—standard Stanford offices and so on.

"But I found one other common correspondent, one with an email that even the Piranha could not trace back to anyone in particular. The emails from this mystery person to Bryce were clearly some kind of code, arranging meets or drops. But the emails from this mystery person to Fleming were technical, scientific.

"There were only a couple, and they were brief. But they discussed the sorts of things, data embedded in pictures and so on, that Fleming taught in the class I took from him, the sort of things I tested so well on, the sorts of things that delivered the Intersect to me." Chuck slowed himself.

"Sorry, that was sort of garbled. I'm getting excited." Chuck reached up with his left arm across his body and put his hand on hers where it rested on his shoulder.

"So, I started looking more carefully at those emails. The wording in them, the structure of the sentences and the vocabulary, it all seemed…familiar. I didn't know why. But whoever was corresponding with Fleming knew more about all this research than Fleming did.

"Do you know who the correspondent was?" Sarah read part of one of the emails over Chuck's shoulder. She couldn't make anything of its content: English, but mostly English technobabble.

Chuck rubbed his thumb on top of her fingers. She closed her eyes. He felt her tremble. He trembled in turn. He could feel only her hands. It took an act of thought to locate his mouth and make it work. Or, at least, to make it do the _talking_ kind of work. Other work it was a ready volunteer for.

"Oh…Um, no. Yesss...I mean _No_. Well, I do mean _Yes_ too, but to…ah…another question." Sarah's breath hitched when she understood. Then he heard the quiet music of her laughter.

"Let me start again. No. Not at first. Like I said, the email trail went cold at a certain point. I couldn't make any progress. I was frustrated." Sarah laughed quietly a second time. "I was sitting here, cursing the Intersect, and remembering how it felt when I saw the images that Bryce sent me, and, pop!, I remembered that I felt that…feeling…before…"

Her hands gripped his shoulders tight. "What do you mean, Chuck?"

"When I was a boy, my dad was working in his study—maybe better to call it his lab—and he stepped out. Normally, he locked the door behind him, more to keep us from breaking anything, I thought, than for secrecy. I snuck in.

"He had cool gadgets and gizmos. I always wanted in there but was never allowed. It was like Disneyland. Anyway, I snuck in. I ended up in front of one of his computers. I hit a key on the keyboard. I saw pictures I did not understand. (And not an early version of Irene Demova)." Chuck laughed. Sarah kissed his curls again.

"Tell me the rest, Chuck."

Chuck took a breath.

"When dad came in and realized what I had done, he panicked. But I was fine. My head hurt a little but that was all. I asked dad what the pictures meant. He told me that they meant I was _special_ …I don't know why it took me so long to remember that."

Chuck took his hand off Sarah's and stood. He turned to her, his slow smile tinctured with regret and sorrow but also with hope.

"Sarah, I've been the Intersect almost _all_ my life. Bryce didn't give it to me for the first time. I gave it to myself. Bryce just gave me a _massive_ upgrade and update. _I am the Intersect and I am my father's son_.

"My dad created this thing in my head. The emails to Fleming are familiar because they are from him. Fleming's work was indebted to my dad's. My dad was somehow involved with Bryce and I suspect he knew about everything that happened at Stanford—after the fact. The emails between them postdate my getting expelled. Maybe my dad can get the Intersect out of my head; he's the reason it first got in."

Chuck raised his hands palm-up in a large, chagrinned shrug, presenting himself: "Bartowski and Son, Intersect, Inc."

Sarah stared raptly at Chuck. She thrilled with wonderment. It was not just the Piranha. It was not just his story, the revelations of his history.

It was the on-going revelation of _Chuck_. He was more of a miracle than she had divined.

When would she ever stop discovering this man?

She had secrets. He had depths.

She took Chuck's hand and moved him to his bed. She pulled back the comforter and the light blanket. She looked at him and did not look away. For once, she wanted to be transparent, understood.

"We won't need any covers tonight, Chuck."

* * *

A/N 2 I hope I didn't puzzle anyone too much with my second A/N in the last chapter. When I finished writing that scene in my favorite coffee shop, I hit the final period and then a scene from Mayer's _Superfolks_ (I read that many years ago, early in high school) popped into my head. The exact language of the scene is, uh, inappropriate for a T story like this, so I won't relate it. Anyway, recalling the scene in juxtaposition with the one I had written made me laugh out loud. A friend of mine, sitting beside me, asked about why I was laughing. When I explained, he encouraged me to put in a footnote, as it were. So I did.


	4. Chapter 3: Again and Again

A/N I found time to write after all.

I do not own Chuck. As always, writing because it is fun.

* * *

CHAPTER 3 Again and Again

* * *

Look _, the Engineer! He thinks he has caught something! He wrestles with it in mid-air!_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 51_

* * *

They made love.

It was more than either of them expected, better than either of them hoped. A dream they made real, two single notes that made an exquisite chord.

They rested wrapped around each other. In the afterglow, Sarah began to cry.

The exhausting strain of months, the weight of wishes entertained and wishes denied, the hopes and the despairs, the spiritual, emotional and physical release of what had happened, it all gathered and broke like a drenching storm.

Chuck said nothing. He just held her tight against him, her tears wet against his neck and shoulder.

"Sarah, are you ok?" He asked after the tears stopped.

Sarah paused before she answered. "I'm…better…than ok, Chuck."

"Good, good. How…uh…How do you feel?"

Sarah look up at Chuck in pretend-shock. "My moans, my screaming your name—all that, and you still need reassurance?"

Sarah met Chuck's mock-scowl with a slow smile.

"Real. I feel real, Chuck."

"I feel wonderful, Sarah, better than I have ever felt, like…like I finally answered a phone that has been ringing and ringing."

"Thanks for that image, Chuck." Sarah giggled. _Sarah_ giggled.

"I know, I know. It's just I feel like I answered a call, the most important call of my life. One I have waited for forever, and that has been ringing for months."

"No, Chuck, you don't have to explain. I get it. Hello, Chuck.

"Hello, Sarah."

Sarah smiled widely in the lamplight. "So what do you want to do now?"

"Short-term or long-term?"

"Let's say: both?"

"Short-term: I want to do what we just did, again. Then maybe we can talk long-term?"

"There's a joke here but I'm not going to make it." Sarah giggled. Again.

Chuck rolled his eyes and then rolled on top of her. They did what they had done, again. And again.

* * *

"So what is the long-term plan, Chuck?"

Well, here is my sit-rep. I have a computer in my brain. The government doesn't care about me, but it does care about that computer, so they sort of have to care about me. It's like keeping the host you hate alive because you love the parasite."

"Gah. Thanks for another image, Chuck."

"The CIA's best agent, the mysterious and utterly entrancing Sarah Walker, has been assigned to protect me. But she is now…" Chuck's eyes swept the length of her body, pressed tight against him, "…she is now well and truly… _compromised_. She also knows things that she is bound by the duties of her station to report, things about the man she…uh, _is crazy about?_ " Sarah smirked and nodded. "The man who has the computer in his brain. Me. But that man is innocent…"

"Not _so_ innocent," Sarah quipped quietly as she bit his earlobe.

"…and he is only trying to extricate himself from a situation that he did not create."

"Yes, Chuck, that sounds about right. So, what is the plan? Are you planning to run, Chuck? Is that where you are leading?" A different sort of panic showed in her eyes and crept into her voice.

"Yes and no, Sarah. I am going to hide in plain sight, Sarah. You remember on our…on the beach when you told me that there was nowhere I could run?"

Sarah nodded.

"So I am not going to run. I am going to stay in my room, stay in the Buy More. No one really notices me, Sarah, no one but you. Everyone is spending all their time and energy noticing people they are afraid have or will notice me, like Fulcrum. No one but you knows I am the Piranha. No one but you takes me seriously. No one has any reason to expect that I can fight back from right here. I have the perfect cover: Chuck Bartowski. No one expects anything of him."

"So, like Edgar Allen Poe's 'Purloined Letter'?"

"Hey, that CIA education wasn't wasted on you was it?"

Sarah punched Chuck in the shoulder. "Oh, right, scholarship-to-Stanford guy. I forgot."

Chuck giggled.

"So I am going to go on as I have, at least in public. I will keep stumbling around outside this room. My cover will be myself. I will be the loser guy that Casey and Graham and Beckman all think I me to be. It's a perfect cover because they gave it to me. They already believe it."

Sarah was quiet for a minute. "Ok, ok. That might work. But you will have to be careful of Casey. He doesn't think as little of you as you think he does. And he is the closest to you, and to me. So what I am doing as you continue your cover as Chuck Bartowski, Mr. Piranha?"

"This is the hard part, Sarah. Mostly you do nothing. I have already asked you to not do what your agent badge says you should do. I have already compromised you."

"Yes. Three times—and counting, I hope."

"I want to go on cover dating you. I want to keep going on missions. I like helping, and as long as I have the Intersect I will help. I like helping you save the world. I will also be doing…other things. But mostly I am not going to tell you about them."

Sarah sat up, immediately angry. "But why, Chuck? Why?"

"Because if I get caught, I want—no, I need—to know you can walk away from this, can go on saving the world if that is what you want to do. I want to preserve _plausible deniability_ for you, if possible."

"But what about us, what about _this_ , what about 'and counting'?"

"Maybe we can find a way to be together here and there, now and then. I am going to hide in plain sight, Sarah, and I am asking you to have a long-distance relationship with me while we work together and see each other every day. I don't know if Casey does think more of me than I believe, but you are right: he is close. If things change too much between us, he'll know or he'll find out. For now, we go back to the way things were."

"I can't go back to the way things were before this, before us, Chuck, I can't."

"But you won't. We will be together but not together, not right now, or not often. For months we've been not-together but together, in cover purgatory." Chuck swallowed hard.

"I'm not saying this won't be its own kind of purgatory, Sarah, but it will give me time to get rid of the Intersect and have the life I want with the girl I want, if she still wants me when this is over."

Chuck turned a questioning gaze to Sarah. She held his gaze for a moment then glanced away.

"So, Chuck, you are telling me you can pretend that tonight never happened?"

"I told you just a week or so ago I've gotten pretty familiar with faking it. But never forget and never doubt: tonight is the best night of my life, Sarah. I just have to do this. What do you think?"

"I don't know. I'm too happy and too satisfied and too tired to decide if this is a good plan or insanity. Let's sleep on it."

"Okay, baby."

"Chuck! 'Baby'? Really?"

"Too soon?"

"Uh…I don't know. _Baby_? _Baby_. Baby. Huh. No, Chuck, not too soon. It's about damned time."

* * *

Sarah's cell phone woke them.

"Walker. Casey? The techs finally got it open? What? _Who?_ Can you say that again, more slowly? Bryce? But he's dead."

Chuck had been listening, his eyes shut. They were open now.

"Alright, Casey, I will be there as soon as I can."

Chuck looked disbelievingly at Sarah. She was pale in the early morning light.

"Chuck, that wasn't a bomb, it was Bryce. He was on some kind of life support inside that container. He's at a secure clinic. He's alive but he is not conscious. They aren't sure if he can be revived. They think so; they working on it. I've got to go."

Chuck blinked several times. "Ok, Sarah. I get it. But we have more to talk about, don't we?"

"Yes, Chuck, but not now. Casey wants me there. I've got to get dressed, go to my place to shower and change. Then I need to get to the clinic." As she talked, Sarah put on her clothes.

Once dressed, she leaned over to Chuck who was sitting up in the bed. She kissed him quickly. She smiled at him.

Chuck smiled back. He got out of bed and caught her hand as she grabbed her jacket and cap.

"Are you ok? I mean, I feel sort of dizzy. Bryce is _alive_?"

"So it seems. It makes me a little dizzy too. But I'm ok, I think." She swung her jacket over her shoulder and put her cap on.

* * *

Chuck grabbed his Stanford shirt and his pajama bottoms and put them on. He sat down at his desk. He looked at the picture of himself and Sarah. He looked at his bed, the sheets mussed where they had been together and slept together.

Bryce. Alive. The Piranha. Alive. It was the season of reanimation.

* * *

Despite the way the morning began, Chuck walked into the Buy More feeling better about the world, and better about himself than he had in a long time. He had the 9-5 shift.

As he approached the Nerd Herd desk, he noticed that the attractive young woman from the Pita Palace was in the store again. She had been in a lot lately. Lizzie—that was her name. She was talking to Lester. Jeff stood creepily off to the side, watching her, and fidgeting. Chuck noticed that there was a small display camera on the counter, pointed toward Lizzie as she leaned in to talk to Lester, who was purposely whispering to get her to lean forward. Another mess to clean up.

Chuck walked past the scene and into the back room, to the cage where repairs were kept. He had been tinkering back there for a while, finding ways to link together the various unclaimed computers so as to increase the computing power of the store computer stationed in the cage. He had done it at night, during times when he stayed late since no one else was willing actually to do repairs. He had been careful to hide any obvious sign of the linkage and to be sure that the store computer did not register its newly acquired power in any obvious way. Probably all the effort at stealth was wasted. No one else had been in the cage so long they had started calling it the Chuck Pen.

Chuck sat down. He turned on the computer. He sent an email to the address common both to Professor Fleming and to Bryce Larkin. He was careful to send it from a specially constructed account. It was as close to untraceable as he could make it—so, untraceable for almost any other hacker.

He used an old code that he and his Dad had played with when he was a boy so that they could send each other messages that Ellie and Chuck's mom could not read.

Using the code required having a copy of Michael Farraday's _The Chemical History of a Candle_ , a past classic of popular science that, many years ago, Chuck's dad had read to him and discussed with him before bedtime. Chuck pulled out his battered copy (the same as his dad's) and coded the email. Decoded, the email read:

 _Hey Dad!_

 _Long time, no see. It's me, your son with computers on the brain. Would like to find something else to think about. Need your help. Find me. I'm tired of being special._

 _Ace_

* * *

In the mid-afternoon, not long before his shift was due to end, Chuck's phone vibrated.

It was Sarah. He had been getting more and more tense about not having heard from her. He had worked all day to keep from obsessing about Bryce—about how he was doing and what he was doing back on this side of the blue. About Sarah and Bryce.

"Chuck? Sarah. Can you talk?" Chuck looked around, no one was watching. He noticed the display camera that Jeff had been using stuffed into a pile of random electronic parts kept under the desk. Holding his phone against his shoulder, Chuck grabbed the camera. As he expected, the memory card was still inside. He took it out and slipped it into his pants pocket. "What's up, Sarah."

"Bryce is in pretty bad shape. They…did things to him. He seems to be recovered from his bullet wounds but someone has been doing things to his head. He woke up a few minutes ago. He keeps asking for you. He won't talk to anyone else. They sedated him. Can you come here soon?"

Sarah's voice was stretched and odd. Maybe, like him, she was just tired. She gave Chuck the address and said goodbye.

Chuck was glad Bryce was alive. He didn't wish him dead. But if Chuck was honest, he was tired of Bryce's presence in his life. Bryce seemed either to be beating him at something or patronizing him about something. He was tired of both.

Sarah and Bryce had been lovers. Chuck had made himself face that fact a while ago. Chuck had made love to Sarah last night. He felt the old familiar crocodile scratches of jealousy. Fine, let the croc scratch. This time Chuck was going to be different. He was not going to dance to jealousy's tune. This time, he was the Piranha.

As he quickly clocked out, Chuck was humming XTC's 'Crocodile'.

 _But there's one emotion I'm afraid of_

 _Hear him scratching gently to be free_

 _I can't stand it when he sits there smiling_

 _I don't want him nesting in my head_

 _Crocodile_

Chuck hurried toward the Herder he was going to drive. The next lines of the song struck as he unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat.

 _No, you won't make me jealous_

 _That she left me for him_

He sat still for a minute before he started the car. Bryce again.


	5. Chapter 4: Treat Me Like a Snowman

A/N Had some unexpected time on my hands, so here is the next installment. Terrific to be getting such a strong response to this story. Thanks to all who are reading, reviewing and PM-ing. Love to hear from you.

Don't own Chuck. Never have, never will.

* * *

CHAPTER 4 Treat Me Like a Snowman

* * *

 _Now leaning over the salt nerve of our wave length we have decided to send you the frozen exports of a compromised musician._

 _Cables to the Ace 88_

* * *

"Walker?"

"Carina."

Sarah had walked outside the clinic, gotten in her Porshe, and pulled out the burner phone she used for Carina.

She took a deep breath in the pause after she said Carina's name.

"So, Walker, what's the sit-rep?" Carina's question was cautious. "You sound…funny."

"It's been a…funny day."

"So Chuckles turned out to be…less than you hoped?" Carina's tone was light. Sarah laughed.

"Thanks, Carina. I needed that. No, _Chuck_ was more than I hoped." She stalled for a moment. "Last night was…"

"What? Walker, tell me!" Carina's eager happiness for Sarah spoke through the phone.

"Last night was the best night of my life. I have never…let's just say that it was a first-time sort of experience, Carina."

"Well, given what's riding on this for you, Blondie, I am glad to hear it...I really am glad to hear it, Sarah."

"I know."

"So why did you sound funny?"

"Bryce is alive and in Burbank."

Silence. Silence.

"Huh? Say those words again, Sarah."

"Bryce is alive and in Burbank."

"How?"

"We don't know yet. I mean, he was in the bomb. I mean the thing Chuck and I thought was a bomb. The thing kept him alive. He's been in and out of consciousness. When conscious, he asks for Chuck. He looks awful.

"He's obviously been in a coma or something, some kind of cryogenic stasis, maybe. His muscle mass is badly depleted. His wounds have healed, but the scarring is bad. Whoever took care of him obviously didn't care about anything but keeping him alive.

"There's evidence of extensive head trauma and…invasive…brain surgeries. I'm more or less repeating what the medical staff told me, although most of it is apparent to the naked eye."

"Ok, ok. It will take me a minute to process this, Sarah. How are you doing with it? How do you go from in warm-Chuck bed to beside cryo-Bryce gurney?"

"I was shocked. I'm better now, but still shaky. Seeing Bryce…I mean, I feel bad, really bad, for him…and I am happy and grateful anyway that he is still alive.

"But I admit my first thought after the shock wore off, when I looked at Bryce again, was: _So not my Chuck_. I guess, odd as it sounds, things have gotten clearer for me even than they were last night. That's not because of the awful things that have been done to Bryce or the awful shape he's in. I just suddenly could clearly tell the difference between what I felt for him in the past and what I feel for Chuck now."

 _So not_ my Chuck. _'My Chuck'. Oh, God, that is how I have been thinking about him for a long time, isn't it? I am not compromised; I'm gone._

 _I'm gone now. Will I still be gone when Chuck is ready to leave, to leave this life? Can I be with him if I am not a spy?_

"Good, Sarah, that's good. Not about Bryce, obviously. That makes me sick to my stomach.

"I liked...like Bryce, you know, and was glad for you that he was in your life while he was. But he's always been…well, Bryce is a great spy. And, I mean, I'd do him; maybe I will come and help him convalesce.

"But, at the risk of making you feel better about the mess you are in and of costing myself opportunities to torment you, I like Chuck better. Respect him. He's the better guy. (And if you tell him I said that, I will first deny it nastily and second kill you slowly.) I can't imagine Bryce doing what Chuck did to save you, to get me to help save you, from Peyman."

Sarah smiled to herself. Chuck talked about her saving him, and she had, but he returned the favor. He saved her in such heterodox ways—from a spy's perspective—that it was easy to miss that he had done so. That was part of what Chuck meant about Graham and Beckman and Casey believing his 'cover'.

"Be careful; you are playing a dangerous game. Sarah, I am sorry, I have to go. Time to put on my game face. My mission's still not finished. I hope Bryce gets better. Try not to mishandle your asset."

"You'll pay for that remark, Carina." Stop.

"You're all talk, Walker." Another pause. Then Carina guffawed. "Be careful, Sarah. This is still not the smart play." Sarah ended the call, shaking her head in response to Carina's laughter and her warning. Carina wasn't wrong.

Chuck should be along soon.

She put her game face on.

* * *

In the Buy More break room, Casey was thinking. He did not do that much. Not because he was incapable of thought. He was no scarecrow without a brain. He had ASVAB scores that proved that wrong; IQ scores too.

No, he just did not find reflection helped him day-to-day. His internal monologue was mostly grunts. And people thought the audible grunts normally hid something else. Ha!

But he was thinking now. Specifically, about Walker. Well, specifically about Walker and the asset.

Walker had made an uncharacteristic mistake.

The truth serum: it had made Casey confess that he wouldn't shoot Bartowski after threatening to do so. Casey had seen Walker have at least a couple of conversations with the ass…with Bartowski while they were both under the influence.

That worried him later. He called Walker. Casey knew he had, _technically_ , compromised himself with Bartowski. He doubted Bartowski would realize it, though, so no harm, no foul. But what had Bartowski and Walker said to each other? It mattered.

Walker was smitten.

Sure, she thought she could hide it. But Casey knew it and knew that others knew it, like Bartowski's sister, Ellie. He had watched Ellie watch Sarah when they both thought no one else was watching either of them.

 _That one thought shows how screwed up and twisty my life really is. Damn._

Ellie knew that Walker was smitten. And if Ellie knew, how could he not know? Spy, after all.

So he called Walker and asked gross point blank. _Ha! I can do pop culture references too!_ Did she compromise herself under the truth serum? Walker said no. She quickly pointed out that she had been trained to resist the serum's effects. She had noted that she might have compromised herself if not for the training.

She didn't need to add that last bit, and she didn't really think it through. Casey suspected it was because of something that she had said to Bartowski. They had both seemed…withdrawn…after they finished at the poisoner's apartment.

Walker's comment about her training implied—maybe not by strict logic but by situational reality—that there was _a_ truth she had kept hidden from Chuck.

Of course, it was _possible_ that she had in mind any of a host of truths about herself Bartowski did not know, like, say, the name of her elementary school.

But Bartwoski wouldn't have pressed her on that or anything like it, at least not then, not there.

More telling was that Walker would have had no reason to think of herself as keeping such a secret. No, from her point of view, she had to have a secret especially worth keeping. Something salient. Something on her mind.

That secret was known, despite Walker's gifts as a spy.

The only person at all close to her she was successfully deceiving was herself. Good luck that Graham and Beckman were across the country. Walker loved Chuck Bartowski. Casey's professional duty was clear. But it was less clear to him than ever before whether he should do his duty.

He had always done his duty. He'd done his duty the way apples fell from trees: without thought, without compunction, mechanistically. One tin soldier, no heart.

He hadn't had a heart, he hadn't wanted a heart, but damn Bartowski…

Walker loved Bartowski and Casey did not know what to do about it.

* * *

Sarah met Chuck in the hallway. He wanted to touch her so bad that he started to sweat. It had been bad every time he saw her before last night. He had not realized how much worse it could be. Given the stony set of her features, he thought it was just as bad for her. Whose bright idea was this again?

Oh, yeah…

She told him about Bryce's condition, tried to prepare him. Then she put her hand on his arm and took her time leading him to the door of Bryce's room. She stood for a moment and breathed deeply.

"Go in, Chuck. He's still conscious, but not quite himself."

* * *

Chuck went in. He stood beside the bed and looked down on the living remains of Bryce Larkin.

His blue eyes were rheumy and red. They rolled loosely in his head. His athletic body had been reduced to a stick figure. There were ugly, lumpy scars on his chest. His head had been shaved not long ago, and his hair had grown back but not enough to obscure various scars on his head.

Bryce's teeth were chattering although the room was warm. Bryce's eyes rolled several more times before coming to rest on Chuck. Chuck felt his eyes fill with tears. The distance between this Bryce and the Bryce he had known seemed too great to be traveled in reverse. Could Bryce recover? Sarah had said that the doctors thought he could, mostly. But he might never be fit for missions again. Time would tell.

"Chuck!"

"Bryce, Bryce, man, I am so sorry. Are you ok?"

"You? You're sorry? I'm sorry, Chuck. Sorry about everything, about so much. I need to apologize and apologize. But Chuck, that'll be later. You've got to be careful, Chuck. Fulcrum is coming, Chuck. They're getting close. They're _coming_ , Chuck!"

And with that, Bryce lost consciousness.

* * *

Sarah was sitting with Chuck, trying to comfort him without taking him in her arms. Her phone rang. She looked at it. "Casey," she said to Chuck.

"Walker here, Casey."

"You found a bug, a Fulcrum bug _in the Buy More_? Yes, yes. The asset is with me. We will meet you at your apartment in an hour. Are you sending in a team? Good. After the Buy More closes? Right. Get the surveillance tapes. See you at your place."

"C'mon, Chuck. We have to go." Sarah got up and started to her car. Chuck ran to catch up.

* * *

Once in the car and on the move, Sarah reached over and took Chuck's hand. "I swept the car for bugs again today just to be sure. We're ok."

She threaded her fingers into his and they sat quietly, enjoying the contact. But they were both troubled. After a few minutes, Chuck sighed.

"I know, Chuck. It's bad, Bryce's condition is bad. But we have to believe he will recover. I know you, Chuck. You are worried that you wished this on him, that it is somehow your fault. You know that is crazy, don't you?"

Chuck looked at her before folding his lips in and closing his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he sighed eventually.

"Right now, Chuck, we have a more pressing problem. You heard my side of the phone call from Casey. Do you know what it means?"

"Yeah, I get it. It means that Fulcrum probably knows that I am the Intersect. It means I probably get to go live in Efrafa with General Woundwart."

"Efrafa?"

"You know, the slave warren in _Watership Down_."

"Is that a lost-at-sea story?"

"No, no. Nevermind. I just mean I probably get to go live in a hole in the ground. Hang out with Beckman."

"Let's not panic yet, Chuck. We need to find out what is really going on."

"Oh, so _then_ we panic?" Sarah looked at Chuck, stricken, her fear showing, but said nothing.


	6. Chapter 5: Fish and Microchips

A/N Keep in mind that my pacing is already out of step with the canon since I have moved out of Imported Hard Salami right into Marlin. Don't let your 'temporal' expectations be shaped much by the canon. My story will make contact with the canon timeline in various ways, but will not be restaging that timeline. I have my own fish to fry.

Thanks for reading! Speaking of reading, **WvonB** has more or less wrapped up The Man Who Never Was. [A humble bow in the direction of **WvonB** ] If you aren't reading that too, why not? I strongly encourage it!

I am a non-owner of Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 5 Fish and Microchips

* * *

 _Since when we have become umpires._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 29_

* * *

Chuck stood inside Casey's apartment, next to Sarah and across from Casey. They were all staring at a bug.

Chuck had flashed on it and confirmed what Casey had suspected. It was a bug favored by Fulcrum, and rarely, if ever used by the CIA. It was a bad bug.

Casey was still waiting for word from the team sweeping the Buy More. Since the store had only recently closed for the day, it was unlikely that the team would have results immediately.

"Where there is one bug, there are many." Casey opined, sagely. Chuck thought of the profusion of bugs in his bedroom. Right.

"This particular kind of bug has a limited broadcast range. Only a few yards really. It relays information to a receiver that stores it. That receiver is not a transmitter. So to get the information off it, you need to hook it up physically to a transmitter. Uh, at least, that's what the Intersect says." Casey and Sarah looked at him, but each in a different way.

"Yeah, that's what I was told," Casey commented brusquely. "The first thing the team was supposed to do what to identify the receiver. The bad news is that it does not seem to be in the Buy More. The individual bugs are tricky to find, their limited range means they have keep a low profile. The receiver runs hot, though. They should have found it by now—or soon, anyway."

With that, Casey's phone rang. He listened carefully and then reported: "No sign of the receiver. We have to assume it has been collected."

The monitor on Casey's desk shifted from a screen full of black to a screen full of General Diane Beckman.

"Agent. Major. Ass…Mr, uh, Bartowski. I am now current on the situation at the Buy More. I am…concerned. Mr. Bartowski, you are not needed. I need to brief Walker and Casey on the situation. We need you to go home and wait there until we have the situation under control."

Chuck nodded. He left Casey's and walked quickly to his apartment. He unlocked the door and slipped inside, then sprinted to his bedroom. He hit a combination of keys on his computer so that the video surveillance in his room would show him on the bed, tossing a tennis ball into the air—just in case they wanted to make sure of where he was.

The next combination of keystrokes allowed him to see the inside of Casey's apartment. Chuck had intercepted the signal going from Casey's to Beckman, in effect allowing him to see what she saw. He was also able to hear what they said. A final combination of keys allowed him to hear Beckman's side of the conversation. _Where there's one bug, there are many_ , _Casey_.

* * *

"…So I believe we have no choice. The asset must be moved to a secure location. Graham is out of town, but this has always been our contingency plan. I have a call into him but am certain he will agree. Thoughts?"

Casey was standing unconsciously at attention. He spoke. "General, would that be a one-way ticket? I mean, I understand moving him to keep him safe, but we do not know what, if anything, Fulcrum knows about the Intersect. If we can prove they know nothing, or can contain what they know, could the asset be returned to his home?"

Sarah listened closely to Casey and then turned to Beckman in apparent curiosity. Casey's face was showed no expression.

"No, no two-way tickets. If he goes into a bunker, he stays. If we let him out, he will run as soon as he is home. As long as the reality of the bunker is unclear to the asset, we might be able to get him to go without struggle or resistance. I hope that is what we will be able to do tonight. But once the reality is clear, the possibility of return will be intolerable to the asset. That does not mean we can't tell the asset there is a two-way ticket if that will help to make him pliable."

Casey blinked. His face remained blank.

Sarah stepped toward the screen. "General, can't we just have some more time. Maybe twenty-four hours? Time to see if we can figure out what Fulcrum has and whether they know anything. We do not know whether the receiver's information has been transferred. And even if it has, it may have no information on it that will confirm that Chuck is the Intersect. You know he is deeply tied to his friends and his family. You know how much human interaction matters to him. I fear he will be of no use to you if you isolate him in a bunker."

"Frankly, I am not so much worried, Agent Walker, about whether the asset is of use. Of course, I would much rather that he be of use. It would be a shame to lose the…advantages he has given us. But what I am really worried about the threat he represents, the ways he might be used against us or studied so as to advance Fulcrum's own Intersect ambitions. Right now, it is the threat of the asset, not his benefit, that matter most."

"But, General, with all due respect, twenty-four hours will not make that much difference." Sarah's voice was carefully measured. "The asset has proven to be an advantage, a difference-maker. With him, working at peak efficiency, as he has been, we have a real shot not just to resist Fulcrum but to dismantle Fulcrum. Why melt down our best weapon just because we are worried that the enemy might—might—know where it is?"

Beckman pursed her lips. Chuck was literally sitting on the edge of his desk chair.

"Alright, Agent Walker, you have twenty-four hours. It's my ball game right now. I will make this call and Graham will have to live with it.

"If, in that time, we determine that the asset's identity has not been discovered, he can stay where he is. But if we do not determine that, then he is to be moved to the bunker. I will expect you, Agent Walker, to be the one to deliver him into custody if that is what is required." Beckman looked hard at Sarah, carefully monitoring her reaction. Casey was staring at her too. She did not flinch.

"Yes, ma'am, I will do it."

"General," Casey broke in, "may we bring the asset back? He may be able to help us figure out what we are seeing on the surveillance tapes from The Buy More. We haven't had a chance to look at them yet."

"Yes, you may. And, Sarah, I expect you to be with the asset for the next twelve hours. Do not let him out of your sight—at least, not until I discharge you or you deliver him into custody. Beckman out."

* * *

Chuck shut down his computer, turning off the various feeds and video loops. He slipped out of his room. He waited on the inside for the knock on his door.

When it came, he opened the door. Sarah was standing there. For a split second, she allowed her stony mask to drop, and he could see her deepening fear. He smiled grimly. "You need me now?"

"Yes, I need you now. We need you to help us with the Buy More tapes."

* * *

It took only a couple of minutes. Speeding through tape from the night before, Chuck noticed Lester and Jeff had entered the store after hours. They had wandered around for a while, obviously tipsy, and obviously in search of something, anything, to do.

They knocked over a display of radio-controlled cars, and then managed to pile them back up haphazardly. They were talking to each other, but little that they said made any sense. They mainly fussed with each other like an elderly couple.

They ended up in Big Mike's office. They stood side-by-side, staring fixedly at Big Mike's fake Marlin hanging on the wall. They began a conversation.

* * *

Lester: Jeff, I hate that fish. I hate it because Big Mike loves it. I am a hater. He is a lover. Big Mike, wherever you are, Lester hates your heart!

Jeff: Lester, let's take the fish.

Lester: We can't take it, Jeff, it's not real.

Jeff: Whaddaya mean? It's a real fake fish. Of course, we can take it. But it can't swim.

Lester: Of course, it can't swim. An unreal fish cannot swim. It can only be imagined to swim.

Jeff: But it isn't an unreal fish, it is a fake fish. There're not the same. A fake fish is a real wall ornament. An unreal fish ornaments no wall. And I can't imagine an unreal fish swimming. Unless you think an unreal fish is an imaginary fish?

Lester: Jeff, you are an idiot. A real idiot.

Jeff: Let's take the fish and hide it at Chuck's. He's always ruining our fun. We can drop Big Mike a line about his fish, and he can find it at Chuck's—and then we can do whatever we want, all day long.

Lester: Ha! Drop a line about a fish. You are a poet, Jeff, a poet.

Jeff beamed.

Jeff: _You shud rite down evrey thing I say from now on_. Ha!

Lester looked at Jeff, confused. Then he lifted the fish from the wall.

Lester: For a hollow fish, this thing's heavy. Grab that end, Jeff.

* * *

They ran the recording back through a few weeks. It took time. Nothing. But then they found a night with another intruder. Small, dressed all in black, head obscured by a balaclava, the figures stole into the Buy More and went straight to Big Mike's office and slipped inside.

The figure took an electronic device out of a backpack, twiddled with its dials, and then slipped it down the gullet of Big Mike's fish. They figure then started to retrieve something else from the backpack. Suddenly, the figure stiffened, then quickly dipped into a crouch. It zipped up the backpack slowly and slipped back out of Big Mike's office, and then out of the store.

"Must have heard something but the camera did not pick it up. Spooked him or her, interrupted the task. Ok. So that was the receiver, swallowed by the fish, " Chuck said, "and Lester and Jeff took the fish, apparently with the receiver still inside. It was supposed to end up at my place, but it is not there. Where could it be?"

Casey's phone rang again. "Casey. Huh. Did you find more bugs? How many? Twenty-eight? Plus the one I found? So, twenty-nine. Right. Casey out."

Casey turned to Chuck and Sarah. "There were twenty-nine of those creepy crawlers in the Buy More. How could they have gotten there?"

Sarah answered. "The intruder was going to install the bugs after secreting the receiver. But a noise scared him or her off. The bugs had to have been installed during daytime hours since the intruder never returned at night."

"Do we have any reason to suspect any of the Buy Morons?" Casey's tone declared that the answer to his question was _No_.

Chuck answered anyway: "No. I mean, setting aside Morgan, Lester is the brains of the outfit."

"So, it must be someone who has come in. Let's assume to start that the bugs were all planted by one person. If so, that would make it easier to identify the culprit, since he or she would have to either access the store multiple times or spend a long time there on one or on a few visits." Sarah said this to Casey who listened, nodding.

Chuck had a sudden intuition. What Sarah said juxtaposed in his mind with something in the posture of the intruder from the video and the posture of the…

"Lizzie!"

"What?" Sarah asked as she and Casey both turned to him.

Chuck shoved his hand into his pocket and retrieved the memory card from the camera Jeff and Lester had been using to record Lizzie's visit. He shoved it into the appropriate slot on Casey's computer and opened it.

It was a compendium of cleavage.

One Pita Palace woman was the star. There was video of her from her earliest visit to the Buy More. And despite his embarrassment at leaning in to watch, Chuck scanned it intently, trying hard to get a look at Lizzie's...hands—luckily, the angle of the video kept her hands mostly in view.

At one point, she had walked away from the Nerd Herd desk. Jeff's fingers obscured her for a moment as he readjusted the camera clumsily. When his fingers moved, Lizzie had her hand in a display. She did it quickly, deftly; it might have looked like nothing more than casually rummaging through items hanging on display. But, knowing what to look for, it was clear that she left something, planted something.

Chuck ran through the video quickly. He counted the number of her visits as he went. On some of them, there was evidence, as there had been on the first, of her planting bugs. Others gave no good angle, but she was always there long enough to have planted one. She had visited—and so she graced Jeff and Lester's softcore home video—twenty-nine times.

"Odd," Chuck muttered when he finished counting. "Given the...ah...subject matter, I figured she would have visited an even number of times. Music of the Spheres, and all that." Casey looked puzzled. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"I guess it doesn't prove she was the intruder," Casey growled thoughtfully, "but I…agree with…Bartwoski. I'd bet she is the intruder."

"Casey, will you stay here and see if you can find more information on Lizzie? Run her face through recognition software? I am going to take Chuck and we are going fishing."

" _Going fishing_? Sarah, you are a poet, a poet."

She glared at Chuck half-heartedly. "You aren't funny."

"Yeah, well…sometimes it's funny how badly I fail when I try to be funny."

"Right. And this isn't one of those times either." Casey grunted his agreement.

* * *

They went back to his apartment to grab Chuck's jacket.

Sarah took his hand as they walked (just in case Ellie and Devon had come back early, she could explain to Casey). Chuck felt her trembling. Despite his joking, his stomach was twisted steel. Maybe that was the cause of his joking. Laugh, or cry.

When they got into his room, they found Morgan sitting on the bed.

"Hey, guys! I was looking for you, Chuck. I wanted to see you and I have something funny to tell you."

"Morgan, good to see you, but I would rather not talk now. Sarah and I…"

"Oh, yeah, right, right. What was I thinking? Sorry, man." Morgan got up quickly and put on his jacket. "We can talk tomorrow. I know it's late. You have other things to do," Morgan glanced from Chuck to Sarah, "and I just have a fish story to tell you." He started back out the Morgan Door.

"Wait, Morgan!"


	7. Chapter 6: My Station and Its Duties

A/N Hope those who celebrated have had a terrific Thanksgiving holiday and that those who did not have had a great Thursday. I will be on the road tomorrow, heading from my parents' home to my home. Thanks, as always, for reading, for reviewing, and for PM-ing.

* * *

CHAPTER 6 My Station and Its Duties

* * *

 _Next! The Guards hitch up their belts and look around for another one who has been lazy, ineffective. Another one who has shirked duty (and ALL have shirked it). Political malingerers evading their obligation to believe in the GREAT MEANING…_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 21_

* * *

Casey started the facial recognition software. He groaned inwardly. The problem he had been thinking about at the Buy More had gone from campfire to wildfire. It had been a cause for concern. It was now a sirens-screaming emergency.

If they couldn't find Lizzie and the receiver, what would Walker do? What would he do?

His phone rang. Beckman. He grunted. He answered.

"Yes, General?"

"Are you free to speak?"

"Yes."

"Major, I am concerned about Agent Walker. I know her by reputation and I know her record. She is consummately professional. But I am...slightly worried that she is compromised where the asset is concerned. I want you to monitor the situation there very closely. If Walker balks, you will have to free her of the asset—by any means necessary. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"And, if it is an operational necessity, if the asset cannot be delivered to the bunker, then the asset must not be allowed to continue as a threat. Is that clear, too, Major?"

"Yes."

"Good. I hope these remaining hours are productive. I would hate to…end…this, well, team."

Casey said nothing. Beckman ended the call.

So it had come to this. At some time in the next twenty-three hours, he might have to put a bullet in Bartowski, and maybe into Walker too.

Casey did not want to do the first. He was not sure he could—he was not sure that he could bring himself to do it. He…liked Bartowski, respected him.

He did not want to do the second. He was not sure he could—he was not sure he could bring himself to do it…and if he could bring himself to do it, he was fairly sure that Walker would kill him before he killed her. And, for that matter, kill him before he killed Bartowski, if Casey could bring himself to do it.

He was a killer; that woman could become Death.

* * *

Morgan turned from the window. "What?"

"What do you mean, 'a fish story'?" Chuck's tone was blunt, urgent. "Tell us, Morgan."

Morgan looked at Chuck, his eyes narrowing for a second. "Sure, sure. So, I came over this afternoon to…ah…borrow a couple of your computer games, and when I came in, Big Mike's fish was beached right here on your bed."

Sarah had taken Chuck's hand, and he felt her hand squeeze his.

"Really? How did it get here?"

"Dunno for sure, man. But I figured it was Lester and Jeff, up to their normal crap. I worried that it might get you in trouble. So, I got rid of it."

Sarah jumped in. "How, Morgan?"

"Well, actually, that involves you, Sarah, sorta. I had a hard time getting that thing stabilized on my bike. I got some strange looks. I crashed once when the light-saber nose thing got caught in a bush.

"I thought I would just take it back to the Buy More. But then I thought that I might get in trouble. I wasn't sure Big Mike would believe that I just, you know, found it. Then I thought of you. So I lugged the fish into the Wienerlicious. You weren't there, but Scooter listened to my story and actually offered to help. He told me to put the fish in the freezer. So I did. I figured we could find a way to sneak it into the Buy More tomorrow, Chuck."

"So the fish is in the freezer of the Wienerlicious?"

"Yeah."

"Morgan, we have to go. See you later, little buddy."

Chuck and Sarah turned and almost ran from the room. Morgan shook his head. "They are not a normal couple," he said to no one in particular.

* * *

Sarah got in the driver's seat of her Porsche and Chuck in the passenger seat. She launched the car from its parking spot and onto the road.

"Sarah, I am scared. I was just beginning to find a way to take some control of this situation, the woman I love had just found her way to me," Sarah shot Chuck a look but he was not monitoring what he was saying, just saying it, and so missed her look's timing, "and now I may get buried alive before any of it can work out. I must be a loser. I only win so as to lose bigger." He now smiled wanly in response to Sarah's look.

Sarah had a death grip on the steering wheel. She was having trouble seeing ahead—the roadway seemed to have liquefied around the edges.

"Chuck, " she said, her voice thick, "we aren't beat yet. If the fish is there…"

"I know." Chuck extended his hand toward her. She blinked a couple of times and then pried a hand off the wheel long enough to take his hand, pull it to her, and kiss the back of it. She then used the back of his hand to wipe her cheek.

At the feeling of her tears, Chuck's mind finally pulled even with his words.

"Sarah, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to tell you that way. Or I guess, I didn't so much tell you as just report it, did I? This isn't the right time, but I may not have another. I love you, Sarah Walker. I have since the first day in the Buy More. I figured you knew already."

Sarah kissed the back of his hand again then cradled his hand against her cheek. She said nothing.

She let go of his hand to maneuver the car into the parking lot in front of the Wienerlicious. She jumped from the car, unlocked the door, and stepped inside, holding the door for Chuck. He entered. They went directly to the freezer. When they stepped in and turned on the light, they both let out a breath.

Big Mike's fish was freezing in one corner. Chuck grabbed it and stuck his arm deep into its mouth. Sarah smiled in spite of their whole situation; the tableau of Chuck, in the freezer, arm-deep in a plastic Marlin was too absurd. After a few seconds, he pulled the receiver from the belly of the fish.

"I don't know whether to make a Jack Horner reference or a Jonah reference. Maybe Ahab?"

Sarah ignored Chuck's question, although she was smiling as she took the receiver from him. As she looked at it, Chuck reached over and punched a couple of buttons. A small, illumined counter on the front, which had been displaying a number (she hadn't noticed what it was) suddenly showed flashing zeros.

"What did you do, Chuck?"

"I just emptied it of data. There is now no information from those bugs stored in it. It's all vanished."

"Why, Chuck?"

"How could that information be of benefit to us, Sarah? And it might hurt us, _us_ , Sarah, even if it does not contain anything that would have revealed me to be the Intersect to Fulcrum. I know what Beckman tasked you to do."

"She is testing me, Chuck. She must have some suspicion that I am compromised. Things have gotten more difficult." She smiled stoically.

"Well, at least this is over."

"No, Chuck, it's not. This," she handed Chuck the receiver, "is very good. But if Lizzie gets away, Beckman may still give the order to bunker you. We have to find her."

* * *

Casey's facial recognition search had been productive. Lizzie was a free-lancer, an assassin for hire, but had close ties to Fulcrum.

He had also pulled up her Pita Palace paperwork. He had gotten what he hoped was a genuine local address for her. He picked up his phone to call Walker and then nearly dropped it when it began ringing. It was Walker.

"Casey, we found the fish and the receiver was inside it. We have secured it."

"Roger that."

"We are going to go after Lizzie if you have any suggestions. Otherwise, we will have to wait for morning and hope she shows at the Pita Palace."

"I have an address." Casey read it to her; he knew she would memorize it instantly. "Be careful, Walker. Her file is red, deep red. She'll kill you or Chuck with pleasure."

"Okay, Casey."

They got back in the Porsche, stowing the receiver in the floorboard behind Chuck's seat. As Sarah drove, they fell into a tense silence. Part of it was the current predicament—the situation with Lizzie and the yawning bunker—but part of it was what Chuck had said and Sarah had not said.

* * *

Since she could not seem to get her mouth to open, much less to speak about what Chuck said, much less respond to it, Sarah fell into internal conversation with herself, into a litany of call and response between her past self and her present self.

Past Sarah: _This has gone so far past not being the smart play. It is now the remarkably stupid play. He's in love with you. Not I'll-say-it-so-you'll-sleep-with-me love with you, but I-hope-to-wake-with-you-always love with you. Not the asleep kind of love, the wide-awake kind. What are you doing, Sarah? He's really in love with you! Are you really in love with him? Or did you seduce both him_ and yourself _?_

Present Sarah: I…really love him.

 _Then hasn't the game changed entirely, Sarah? Why are you so afraid of loving him after the game changes? Aren't we already there? You aren't going to deliver him to Beckman, are you?_

Hell, no. He's my guy.

 _Then you are not an agent anymore, not like you were, Sarah. So what are you now? Is Agent Walker now your cover?_

No, I am still Agent Walker.

 _No, you aren't._

I am…and I am not.

 _What does that mean? You sound like that Deanna Troi person on the spaceship show Chuck told you about a few weeks ago, the show he mentioned again last night._ You _, Sarah, sound like her, the_ emotions _woman…_

Betazoid?

 _Oh, God, you remember that too?_

How can you remember it?

 _Because I am and am not you._

Shit. I do love him, though, and I would give anything to say it.

The feeling that she had when Chuck said it suffused her again, a simultaneous electric shock and the feeling of a long, warm bath. He was everything.

She waited for her mouth to move. She tried to will it to move. It remained motionless.

But the Porsche hadn't. They were at the address from Lizzie's Pita Palace paperwork. They parked. Sarah reached over and kissed Chuck as hard as she could in the confined space.

He was dazed and she was breathless when she pulled away. She closed her eyes to gather herself, then retrieved her gun, checked it, and then screwed on a silencer. Chuck watched without any comment.

She told Chuck to stay in the car. She got out.

* * *

Lizzie's address turned out to be a duplex in a cheap but not yet shabby neighborhood. Sarah approved of the choice, professionally. She had used similar places many times. _And for similar reasons_.

She shook off the thought.

That it was a good choice also made it seem more likely that Lizzie actually used, maybe even lived, in the duplex. Luckily, the door to the duplex was recessed and enshadowed There was no nearby streetlight.

Sarah pulled out her lock picks and set soundlessly to work on the door. It clicked open. Sarah waited. She listened intently but heard nothing.

While still crouched, she lightly ran her fingers along the bottom of the door, then, as she stood, along the frame opposite the hinges. Feeling nothing to alarm her, she pushed the door in a few centimeters. She waited. She listened. Nothing.

She put her lock picks back in her pocket, took one last look around, her gaze lingering for a split second on the shadow seated in the Porsche, and then she got her gun out and went in.

The door swung inward, so Sarah stepped past it and then used her left hand to push it almost closed. She waited. Listened. Nothing.

She stepped into the apartment. It was clearly a place Lizzie had rented furnished. Unlike the neighborhood, the furniture—even in the half-dark of the apartment—was cheap-gone-to-shabby. The place was clean though. It did look and smell lived in. There were faint odors of food and of kitchen cleaners. As she stepped toward the hallway that led from the living area into the bedroom, she noticed a Pita Palace bag crumpled in a garbage can near the sofa. All of Sarah's senses were now on high alert. Unlike the living area, which was partially lit by a distant streetlight, the hallway was very dark. Sarah stepped into it cautiously.

Sudden movement. A bright light from the end of the hallway blinded her. She threw herself to the floor just before she heard a muffled shot. She fired even before she hit the floor, shooting blindly but confidently in the direction of the light.

She heard her own muffled shot and a groan. Then she felt, rather than saw, someone running toward her and hurdling over her. She heard feet land clumsily on the carpet. Sarah twisted herself up and around. She could see the person—Lizzie!—running toward the door. Lizzie had to pause to pull it open.

Sarah shot again, hitting Lizzie in her right shoulder. The shot propelled Lizzie into the door, closing it, and she fell slowly while turning back toward Sarah. Sarah saw that Lizzie was also bleeding from her stomach. Sarah's first shot. The pistol-flashlight combination Lizzie was holding fell from her hand onto the floor, creating a stain of light on the carpet. As Lizzie slipped into unconsciousness, Sarah stepped from the darkness of the hallway. Lizzie blinked as if to clear her eyes and slurred three words.

"The wiener girl?"

As she called Casey, Sarah looked at Lizzie with abstracted envy. There were three words Sarah desperately wanted to say—even to slur—but couldn't.


	8. Chapter 7: Deep Frying

A/N Black Friday has ended, hasn't it? Here's the next chapter.

No Chuck ownership. No money made. No doorbuster specials.

* * *

CHAPTER 7 Deep Frying

* * *

 _You taught me language and my profit_ on't

 _Is, I now know how to curse. The red plague rid you_

 _For learning me your language (Caliban)_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 6_

* * *

Sarah had to open at the Wienerlicious.

She performed the routine tasks without thinking about them, stacking cups and refilling supplies. She was tired. She had gone to her apartment and went to bed. She had wanted to sleep with Chuck, just to sleep with Chuck. But with Ellie and Devon still away, it would be hard to justify doing so for the sake of their cover. And with Casey next door and with them both so tired...She had gotten a little sleep between tosses and turns. She had never been comfortable sleeping with anyone. Now, after one night, she was uncomfortable not sleeping with Chuck.

She had nearly finished Scooter's opening checklist. She turned the door latch and walked behind the counter. She stood for a moment watching the oil in the deep fryer as it began to churn, slowly reaching temperature.

She loved Chuck but could not tell him. She had never been adept at saying how she felt.

Partly that was because she habitually resisted understanding how she felt, habitually resisted making her feelings articulate, even to herself. She put no words to them; she taught them no language. She mostly interred her feelings, buried them alive deep in her breast, and then waited for them to stop scratching and screaming and finally just to die.

It was partly because the few people she had ever told how she felt about them had left her or failed her or both. Saying 'I love you' had come to seem like saying 'Goodbye'.

But there was still more to her inability to tell Chuck. She wasn't sure what it was, but it was there.

* * *

"So, you two are back together?"

Sarah started. She whirled, braced for attack, only to find herself faced with a tiny, frowning brunette. Lou.

"What? Lou? What? Oh, Chuck?"

"Would there be someone else, Sarah?" Lou looked puzzled and pissed. "So, are you two back together?"

"Yes, we are together."

"I figured. Neither of you seemed really ready to let the other go." Lou turned and gazed thoughtfully out the window for a minute. "Look, Sarah, I know Chuck works for the government, and I know I am not supposed to talk about it _or else_ —at least that's what the big guy who visited me after Chuck broke up with me said. And I won't, at least not after I say this.

"I am normally a good loser—not a happy one, there's usually at least some foul language involved,—but basically a good one. At the risk of losing that status and despite all that has happened, I want to tell you something, something a woman once told me: Chuck is a great guy, and that's not an opinion, it's a fact. Don't hurt him."

They stood quietly for a moment. Lou looked Sarah in the eye and Sarah struggled to meet her gaze.

"I don't plan to hurt him," Sarah said at last. Lou squinted a bit, appraising Sarah.

"I know—that was my response too, Sarah, remember? But it is the wrong response. The right response is: I plan not to hurt him. Are you planning not to hurt him?"

Before Sarah could say anything more, Lou turned and left the shop.

Sarah turned and noticed the deep fryer. The oil was churning.

* * *

 _So, is Agent Walker your cover now?_

Her question to herself from last night had been echoing in her head throughout the morning. The question was in one way not well-formed since 'Walker' was a cover surname. She wasn't really a Walker. 'Agent' was not a cover, however. She really was a CIA agent. Except that she hadn't felt like one since that first cover date with Chuck. She sighed. Since that first _date_ with Chuck. She wondered at the oddity of her situation.

Chuck thought they had been on no real dates. But, for Sarah, all of their cover dates had been almost real dates. She had been powerless to keep the change from happening. Of course, that meant the cover/almost dates were maddening, since she was really almost on a date with Chuck and he thought she was just on a cover date with him, and since he wanted so to be on a real date with her and she wanted so to tell him that they were almost on a real date but that would blow the cover—and yet she ended up just pretending to pretend to hold his hand.

That was the kicker: doubled negations yield a positive: If you are _not not_ dating, then you are dating. But doubled pretenses do not yield the genuine article: If you are _pretending to pretend_ to date, you are not exactly dating. You are almost dating, dating with a level of meta-awareness that dries up spontaneity and curtails joy. She was tired of pretending, and of pretending to pretend.

 _So, is Agent Walker your cover now?_

Really, she knew, she should just call herself Agent _Blank_. First, because she really had no surname and so should just have an empty spot behind the word 'agent'. (Of course, she had one in a narrowly legal sense, but she had long ago shed it and left it behind.) Second, because she was blank, she was a blank. Not just outwardly, because she was unreadable. Inwardly. She was an empty spot. A bloody empty spot.

She was a hole in the world.

Agent Walker, Agent Blank, was a woman of blood. She recalled one of the few times her father had taken her to church. He sometimes dragged them both to a service after a particularly good score—Sarah was never clear if he went in repentance or thanks or a weird union of the two.

At that service, the preacher had gone on for a long time about a man, David, being _a man of blood_ , and about how that resulted in God's denying David the privilege of building a Temple. David's son, Solomon, got that privilege.

As a girl, that perplexed Sarah, since David had shed blood protecting the people of God from their enemies.

As she got older, once she was an agent, she was frightened to find the story somehow made more sense to her. Blood was blood—the details didn't make much of a difference. All she had to give to Chuck was a bloody Agent Blank.

What was she planning?

* * *

 _So is Agent Walker your cover now?_

Lunch was slow. No rush. Sarah was idly wiping down a counter when Morgan came into the shop. He ordered a couple of Wiener Specials and fries. Sarah dropped the food into the deep fryer. When she turned back to the counter, Morgan was still standing there, looking at her thoughtfully.

"What is it, Morgan? We got the Marlin back into Big Mike's office."

"Yeah, I saw it. Thanks. But right now, I'm not so interested in the fish. I am interested in you and Chuck."

Sarah felt a twinge of worry. "What are you interested in, Morgan?"

"I can't figure you two out. I see how he looks at you. You are…uh, well…beautiful, Sarah, and you drive a _Porsche_ , and I suspect you must actually own this place given the bizarre hours you work here, your ability to come and go, and not to mention, Scooter is an imbecile... Anway, so, Chuck loves you and you are an amazing woman, and yet…"

"Morgan?"

"…And yet Chuck isn't happy. Not like he was in the early Jill years," as he said the name 'Jill' Morgan grabbed one of the salt shakers on the counter and shook salt over his shoulder, "and you, Sarah, are so much more than… _her_." He returned the salt shaker to its prior spot. "But you don't seem happy either. I know I don't know you well, but that's how it seems. How can two people so much in love be unhappy?"

Something in what Morgan said suddenly reminded Sarah of her dream from last night. She had forgotten it.

* * *

 _"Lizzie's file is red, deep red." Casey's voice._

 _"But yours, Walker, makes her look like a candy striper. Yours is dripping red, soaked. So. Much. Blood."_

 _Sarah is standing across from Chuck. He is in a tux. He looks so good she cannot breathe. A faceless officiant with Casey's voice intones:_

 _"Do you, Charles Irving Bartowski, take this woman, Agent Sarah Walker, as your wedded wife?"_

 _Sarah looks down to see her beautiful, plain white wedding dress, the toes of her heels peeking out from beneath its lacy hem._

 _"Do you take her…for poorer…in sickness…and as Death?"_

 _She hears Chuck's speak. No hesitation. "I do."_

 _She looks down again. She is holding a file. Her file. It is not just dripping blood. Blood runs out of it, from between the sheets of paper inside it, down, down onto her dress and the toes of her shoes. Chuck reaches for her hands and his hands are suddenly covered in blood. She sees it run from his hands to his wrists and begin to stain the cuffs of his shirt._

 _Chuck is unaware. He is smiling at her, as he smiled at her the other night after they made love._

 _She drops her file. The pages spill out and run with red. The floor is quickly becoming a pool of blood, her shoes now completely obscured. The lacy hem of her skirt has turned red. Blood stains are leeching up the fabric._

 _Her hands are so covered with blood that she cannot recognize them as hers, except when she sees a wedding band on one finger. Her ring. She somehow knows it as hers and knows Chuck put it there, binding them in blood, binding himself to her blood, the blood she has spilled…Her ring_ a bloody empty spot _._

* * *

Sarah suddenly was back in the Wienerlicious, listening to Morgan.

"…I understand that you don't want to answer, Sarah. I get that it is not really any of my business. But I have been so confused about the two of you from the beginning."

Sarah did not respond. The fryer beeped instead. She got Morgan's lunch out of the fryer baskets and plated it. Morgan looked at her hesitantly when she put it on the counter in front of him.

He picked it up and moved to a table, evidently resigned to getting no response from her.

She noticed him looking for something on the table. She realized that the table was missing a ketchup bottle. She grabbed one of the red plastic bottles and took it to him.

Morgan thanked her and squeezed some ketchup onto his plate. He picked up a fry and dipped it, then started it toward his mouth. He paused and stopped. Then he tried his question again.

"So you two are ok? I'm mixed up about this, right? I mean, except for a minute last night, with you, I haven't talked to Chuck in two or three days." He ate the fry.

Sarah tried to shake the disquiet the remembered dream had caused. She suddenly felt lightheaded.

She could not only hear the deep fryer behind her, she could smell it, everywhere. Her legs felt unsteady. She sat down in the chair opposite Morgan, and carefully put her hands out flat on the table in front of her, almost to Morgan's plate. A steadying gesture.

Morgan had looked down at his plate self-consciously. He thought he had upset her and that she was going to tell him so. Sarah took a few slow deep breaths.

There. She felt better. Still a little unsteady, but better.

Morgan ate more of his fries. Glancing up at her now and then.

"Morgan, I'm happy you care so much about Chuck, and about me. You are right. There had been an unresolved…tension between us for a while. But it never kept us apart, and we have moved past it. We are moving past it."

"Good, Sarah, that's good." Morgan smiled big. He ate some more fries. Sarah stayed in her chair, feeling a little better each moment. Her breathing and Morgan's smiling had both helped.

Morgan picked up the ketchup bottle to replenish the supply on his plate. He shook it. Nothing came out. He shook it violently and squeezed it. With a _fzztplzz_ sound, the ketchup bottle suddenly shot out a spray of ketchup, all over Morgan's plate and all over Sarah's hands.

Morgan stared at her hands in horror at what he had done. Sarah stared at her hands in horror at what she had done.

* * *

Chuck was at the Nerd Herd desk. Lester and Jeff were supposed to be there too, helping him with inventory. But an attractive older woman had come in and the two of them began stalking her through the store. Chuck laughed to himself. Neither of them could spell _milf_.

He was working one of Big Mike's weird mid-morning to mid-afternoon shifts. That meant that he missed Ellie and Devon coming home (they had stretched their convention as long as possible, getting a little extra couples' time). It also meant that he could not have lunch with Morgan since Chuck's break was at a different time.

Casey walked up to the desk. "So, Bartowski. You ok? Get some sleep?"

"Yeah, yeah, Casey, I did. A little."

Casey looked around and dropped his voice a bit. "Lizzie will live. Behind bars somewhere, but she'll leave. Sarah's field dressing kept her alive."

Chuck sighed, relieved. Casey looked at him more closely. "How are you and Walker doing? You know, the whole cover dating thing?"

Chuck made himself relax. "Ok, I guess. I mean, it's hard—don't say it, Casey—but we're making it work."

"What do you think, Bartowski? Do you think a woman like Walker could ever choose a different life? She's all and only _spy_ , you know. Could she find a way to change that? Rugrats, minivan, soccer games?"

Chuck knew this trip down Ladyfeelings Lane had to be motivated by something. Casey did not trip down that Lane willingly.

"I don't know, Casey. You're right, I guess. All she has ever been is a spy, so leaving that behind would be like leaving herself behind. I can see how that would be hard. I've never had a job I identified with that strongly." Chuck rolled his eyes, scanning the Buy More, and they both chuckled.

Chuck decided two could play this game. "What about you, Casey? Could you leave this life? You aren't old, Casey. Rugrats, minivan, soccer games? Is there anything more to you than this?"

Chuck could tell the question struck Casey before Casey could hide that fact. Casey grunted. "Just passing the time, Bartowski."

* * *

Casey had gotten something from the exchange. Bartowski had never before been able to talk about Walker quite that…clinically. That was a change, a real change. Something was going on. Bartowski did not do _clinical_.

What the hell was Bartowski doing, asking him, John Casey, about rugrats, minivans and soccer games? As if he would ever replace the Crown Vic with a minivan. That was blasphemy.


	9. Chapter 8: Blushes

A/N I start back to work tomorrow, so I cannot promise to keep up this pace. Students, and all.

Here is the next chapter. After the last chapter, a little _Hey Nonny, Nonny!_

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 8 Blushes

* * *

 _…There are perhaps better solutions than to be eaten by an entirely favorable day. But the day is bright with love and riches for the unconcerned…_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 12_

* * *

"Chuck?"

"Hey, Ellie. What's up?" Chuck grinned. It was good to hear her voice, even on the phone.

"Just trying to get the lab back in order after our time away. Just a few days and people move everything around…What do you need, Chuck. You don't normally call me at work."

"Can I come to see you, you know, as a doctor?"

"Chuck, is something wrong?" Ellie's voice filled with sudden panic.

"No, no. I've just been having…headaches. Uh, allergies, maybe. I wanted you to take a look. That's the plus of having a phrenologist for a sister…"

"You know very well that I an actual, scientific doctor, not a diviner of character from skull formations. I am no witch doctor in scrubs." Her miffed tone belied her obvious enjoyment of Chuck's teasing. "When do you want to come?"

"I'm off at three. Say, a little while after that?"

"Ok. I'm working until six, so I'll be here. Meet me in the lab. We are all still on for dinner, you two with us two?"

"Yes, still on. Ok. Thanks, sis." Chuck actually had a different plan for the evening. He would see about that later.

* * *

Morgan walked into the store, wiping his hands on a paper towel. Chuck raised an eyebrow.

"Ketchup tragedy. Over at the Wienerlicious."

"Really? That's where you went to lunch? I thought the wieners made you feel inadequate?"

"Chuck, be quiet!" Morgan hissed, turning pink. "No one but you is supposed to know that."

Chuck looked around. No one was listening. "I think your secret is safe, little man."

Morgan's eyes narrowed. "Was that a crack?"

"No, no," Chuck said. His laughter made it hard for Morgan to believe him.

"How was Sarah?"

Morgan was silent for a minute. Then he was silent for a minute more. "…She was like that."

"Oh. She's not normally a big talker. Don't take it personally."

"Oh, I won't."

* * *

Chuck didn't let on but he was worried. He and Sarah had not had time to talk really since they woke up together in Chuck's bed.

He picked up his phone again. He dialed Sarah's number.

"Hey, Chuck!"

She sounded ok. Chuck relaxed a little. "Hey, Sarah. You remember we were supposed to have dinner with Ellie and Devon tonight, right?"

"Yes, I remember. That sounds good."

"Ok. I'll come by your place at six."

"I'm looking forward to it, Chuck." Sarah's tone had brightened during the conversation.

"Great. See you then. Bye." He listened to Sarah say goodbye then ended the call. He grabbed his bag from beneath the Nerd Herd desk and walked from it to the repair cage in the back of the store.

As he expected, it was empty. The arrival of new repairs—and there were a few—meant no one but Chuck would set foot in the cage for the fear of being found there and assigned work.

Chuck sat down at the store's computer and worked his magic. A few minutes later, he was looking at the Inbox for his secret email account.

 _Inbox (1)_

Chuck looked at the blue alert. He frowned for a second then clicked on it. There was a message from his dad. He got his copy of Faraday from his bag and worked for a few minutes to decode it.

 _Ace,_

 _Can't make it in person yet. Sorry to hear that computers are dominating your thoughts. Package incoming today. Keep your head up. More help soon._

 _Dad_

Chuck got out of the account and returned the computer to its normal functions.

* * *

A package? Chuck stowed his book in his bag and went back to the Herder desk. A package was sitting there. Lester was staring at it, brandishing a letter opener. Chuck grabbed Lester's hand.

"Is that for me?" He gestured to the package with his chin while he pried the letter opener out of Lester's sweaty grip. Lester went limp. Jeff, who had been watching the entire encounter, spoke up. "Lester thought it might have been a wolf."

Chuck glanced disbelievingly at Jeff and picked up the package. "Really, a wolf? In a UPS package?"

"Well, they run in packages." Chuck stopped. He turned to Jeff. It was impossible to know if that was a joke or as clueless as it sounded. Jeff was inscrutable. "And they sometimes wear shipper's clothing."

Chuck ignored Jeff. There was no margin in responding to that. He opened the end of the package and looked inside. A laptop. He closed the package back and put the package in his bag. He would look at it later, somewhere else.

* * *

"Knock, knock."

"Hey, Chuck!" Ellie's bright smile was a welcome sight. Chuck had missed her. They wrapped each other in a typically aggressive Bartowski hug.

Ellie broke the hug and stepped back. "You are a little late, Chuck. Are you having another headache? I didn't think you had allergies"

Chuck scanned the lab. It had been a while since he'd been there. It looked half Victor Frankenstein and half Martha Stewart. Neat, orderly, but filled with arcane looking machines and wires, test tubes and containers. "No, no. I just got a package today and I took a minute to look at it outside before I came in."

"You and your games. Well, come over here, take off that bag, and sit down. I will take a look."

"Actually, Ellie. I really am here to talk to you as a doctor, as _my doctor_ , if you will agree?"

Ellie was confused. "I am your doctor, Chuck."

"Right, but I mean that I want you to be my doctor and forget that you are my sister. I know why I am having headaches and I want to explain it to you.

"But I need a solemn promise, Ellie, a promise on our good years, when mom and dad were still with us, that you will listen to me and advise me as a doctor, not a sister."

"Chuck, you are scaring me a little. What's going on?"

"You promise? On our good years?"

"Ok, ok, Chuck, I promise."

"Good. Just listen. It will take me some time to tell it, and I will have a hard time keeping it linear. So, I may circle around some.

"It all started when Bryce Larkin sent me an email for my birthday. The next day, I met Sarah Walker and John Casey. I met Sarah first, after I looked at Bryce's email…"

It took Chuck about thirty minutes to tell the tale. Ellie was by turns astonished, outraged, insulted, terrified and bewildered.

She was bouncing in her chair at various moments, and she wanted to speak so badly it looked like she was in real pain. She probably was. But Chuck gestured gently for her to hold her peace. Finally, he finished…

"…And so Bryce is back, but he's in awful shape. Sarah and I are together, but we can't let Casey or Beckman or Graham find out, and I am here to ask you to help me get this thing out of my head. But I am not going to tell Sarah you know, or that we are working together. Plausible deniability. You are going to have to continue to act like you know nothing about any of this."

Ellie dropped her head in her hands, her elbows on her knees. She sat like that for a while, posing for Rodin.

Chuck took the opportunity to open the laptop his father had sent him (he had taken it from his bag to show it to Ellie when he explained about being in contact with their father) and to start it. Ellie lifted her head at the sound of the laptop whirring into life.

The screen was black for a while then a question appeared in plain block letters:

 _Respiration is analogous to?_

Ellie glanced at Chuck, uncomprehending. Chuck smiled. He typed in the answer:

 _The burning of a candle._

Ellie's eyes lit up. "The Faraday book? Dad loved…loves that."

The computer screen filled with files. All of them, by title at least, had something to do with the Intersect.

Ellie turned away from the computer screen and to Chuck.

"Can I ask a few questions now? Non-Intersect questions, at least? I won't freak out." Chuck shook his head. He was copying the files onto a thumb drive.

"So, Sarah is a CIA agent." Not a question. "And you say she loves you and that you slept with her for the first time the night before last." Still not a question. "How do you know she isn't playing you, Chuck?"

Chuck blushed. "Because I know her, Ellie. I was in bed with her. I don't mean that I know much about her. I don't. Her past is almost a complete blank. But I know her. You do too. Consult yourself, Ellie. What do you think?"

Ellie sat still, obviously replaying scenes in her mind's eye. "I know she loves you, Chuck. We just have to trust that, don't we?"

"I'm betting my life on it, Ellie."

"And Casey is NSA. But he doesn't know you are the Piranha?"

"Right."

"And you are in top secret communication with our Dad?"

"Right."

"And he invented the thing in your head. And, inadvertently, put it there originally?"

"Right."

"And you are on a government spy team, a team Sarah is on but I am not, and are now creating a Piranha team, a team I am on but Sarah is not?"

"Right. But Sarah knows, in very general terms, what I am up to."

"God, I need a baseball scorecard to keep all this straight."

"Try living it."

"So are you really having headaches, Chuck?"

"Yeah. I am."

"No wonder." Ellie smiled grimly. "Well, patient, let's get to work and establish some baseline data."

"Ok. I get that we have lots to talk about, Ellie. To talk about as brother and sister, not just doctor and patient. I know you are scared for me. I am scared for me. But with you and Sarah on my side, and with Dad's help, I think I can steal back my life from the US government."

"We're Bartowskis, Chuck; of course, you can. We can."

"You have a dedicated safe, here, right, Ellie, for your research data and so on? Can we put the computer in it? I will find ways to come here as often as I think I can. I want you to look at all these files too."

Ellie nodded. Chuck pulled the thumb drive from the computer, dropped it into his bag, and pushed the computer to Ellie. She nodded. She would put it in the safe. She told Chuck the combination, and he went over it a couple of times until he had it memorized.

"Good. Thanks, El. I love you. One more thing before we start. Can I cancel dinner tonight? I want to take advantage of the fact that Casey thinks we are all having dinner together to take Sarah out alone. We need to talk. But I will need you and Devon to go somewhere else. If you show up at home early and without us, Casey will begin to wonder."

Ellie nodded again. She grabbed a thermometer and told Chuck to put it under his tongue.

* * *

Chuck showed up at Sarah's with a red rose in his hand. She opened the door after one knock. She smiled at him and then at the rose. Chuck could see that she looked stretched and a bit tired. But her smile was genuine. She gave Chuck a quick peck on the cheek. She took the rose and went back into the apartment, leaving the door open for Chuck.

He walked in. She came out of the bathroom a moment later with the rose in a small vase. "It's lovely, Chuck." She put the vase on her nightstand. Chuck noticed that her picture of the two of them, which normally stood on the nightstand, was laying on her bed, face up. She had evidently been looking at it.

"Where are we meeting Ellie and Devon?"

"We aren't. They are going someplace else. I asked them to let us have the evening alone. I told her we needed some alone time."

Sarah's surprise morphed into a brighter smile than he had so far seen that evening. "Oh, good, Chuck! I would like to see them, but this is better." She pulled him to her and hugged him. She whispered in his ear. "I have wanted to be alone with you so bad." He stepped back and gazed at her in complete reciprocal agreement.

They took Sarah's Porsche to a burger shack on the coast. Chuck knew the place and liked it, and he knew it was a low-profile, mostly-locals kind of place. Good burgers and low lights.

When they arrived, they spent a few minutes getting reacquainted in the car. Chuck wobbled a bit when he closed his door and started into the restaurant. Sarah had to stand by her door for a minute herself. She smoothed her skirt and was finally able to put her legs in motion.

They found a corner booth and sat down. A waitress who looked like she was born bored eventually wandered over and took their order. Burgers for each with extra pickles and fries. Two beers.

The waitress apparently took their order but there was no change in her aspect the entire time. Her boredom was, evidently, complete. But there was a sudden tension between Chuck and Sarah.

"Chuck," Sarah began, "I need to tell you something, to explain, I mean. What you told me last night, that…meant everything to me. I have dreamed of you saying that to me…but I can't say it to you yet. I want to, Chuck, please know that."

Chuck reached out for her hand and she put it in his hand immediately. He rubbed the back of her hand softly.

He spoke softly too. "Sarah, I reacted the wrong way. I hadn't intended to tell you, then and there. I had been planning a special night if I could find a way for us to have one, and I wanted to tell you then, there. It just happened; I just said it. I don't expect you to say it back unless you are ready.

"I know what a leap of faith it was for you to show up at my room, Sarah. I do. I am so grateful for that. It was an act of grace. I can't tell you how humbled by it I am. I can't imagine someone…caring enough for me to do what you did, risk what you risked, what you are risking. Thank you."

"Thank you, Chuck.

"I don't think it would be fair to tell you that when you know so little about me. I need to tell you…other things…before I can tell you that.

"You have to know the woman who says the words, or you won't really know what they mean. I know—I know you own a dictionary and are scarily verbal (to me, anyway), but I want you to know what I mean by the words, how they fit into _me_ , into my life. I want to give you all of me, Chuck, not just the…present…me."

"I respect that, Sarah, I do. I get it. But let me say this—not to argue, but to make clearer where I stand.

"I do know you, Sarah. I don't know everything about you. But I know you. I know I do not know anything about your past, and I concede that a person's past makes them who they are. But it does not… _absorb_ who they are. You are _more_ than your past, Sarah, not equivalent to it, certainly not less than it."

Sarah sat for a moment in deep consideration. While she sat, the bored waitress came with their burgers, depositing them with a slowness that left her boredom and the silence intact.

Sarah looked up finally and smiled at Chuck. She still looked tired, but she no longer looked as stretched as she had at her apartment door.

The smell of the burgers claimed their attention and they both began to eat with intensity. After a moment, each noticed the other's mouth stuffed full and they laughed through their noses. The tension broke. They ate the rest of their meal in good company, each other's, chatting and joking.

"So," Sarah asked, glancing down at the two empty plates and the empty beer bottles, "is there any way we can... spend the night together? Can you come to my place? We could log it as cover work—although it will not be work. But I warn you, I may expect you to exert yourself…rather a lot."

"Are you sure you are not too tired? We could go back to my place and sleep. I just want to be with you, Sarah. I would love to _be with you_ , of course, but I would be very happy just to be beside you."

"Come to my place, Chuck. You will eventually be beside me, after enjoying other…spatial orientations toward me." She smiled in frank arousal.

"You are killing me, Sarah."

"' _Not wounded, Sire, but dead_.'"

"Huh?"

Sarah giggled. " _I_ got _you_ with a movie reference? Katherine Hepburn, drunk: _The Philadelphia Story_. When Jimmy Stewart carries her from the pool and they run into Carey Grant?…It's a mixed-up line from a Robert Browning poem."

Chuck was lost. Sarah smiled in one kind of satisfaction—and in expectation of another.

"I've watched a little late night tv. And...uh...I spent some time at Harvard." She looked down at the table. Chuck turned red.

"You were at _Harvard_ …and I've been bragging about Stanford? I'm an idiot."

"No, you're cute, especially when you turn that shade of red, especially when I am responsible for it—one way or another."

Their waitress was no more excited when they left than when they arrived.

But they were.


	10. Chapter 9: Warped Pygmalion

A/N Chapter 8 ended the first arc of the story. This chapter, likely the longest in the story, begins the second arc.

Thanks to all for reading! Thanks too for the reviews and PMs. I've been trying to respond to all.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 9 Warped Pygmalion

* * *

 _For the notables had built a black stone wall around her heart_

 _And the prelates, martyrs, and confessors wanted the doors closed…_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 82_

* * *

 _One month later_

It was nine in the morning and Chuck, Sarah and Casey were standing in Casey's apartment, all blinking in half-sleep, waiting for a video conference with Beckman and Graham.

They had been told that it was important, and they were expecting a new, high-priority mission.

They had been busy the past four weeks, and it looked like that was going to continue. Casey, still tired even after his night's sleep, was standing with a heavy coffee mug in his hand, looking quizzically through the steam rising from it. He was looking at Chuck and Sarah, who both were staring absently at each other.

He was _almost_ certain they were now a couple. But he had to give them credit. If they were a couple, they were doing a good job of hiding it. If anything, they seemed to be spending less time together than they had before. And the time they spent together, especially on any cover date he witnessed, seemed more awkward than it had even at the beginning of the assignment in Burbank. They seemed stiff and uncomfortable around each other on those dates.

Casey had decided to take the safest route where they were concerned. He was not trying to catch them or prove that they were together, but he was also not easing up on his normal routines or changing his habits.

He would do his job.

If they could keep him from seeing anything, he would not go looking for something to see. His job did not technically require him to _spy_ on them, even if he was a spy.

He always let one or the other of them know his schedule and his intentions, and then he kept to it and them. So far, so good. They'd kept him no more than _almost_ certain. That was a good place for him and for them, assuming they were together. The problem was how long they could maintain it.

* * *

"Good morning, Team."

The three of them wearily greeted the image of Beckman and Graham on the monitor. Beckman began.

"We have several important things to discuss with you.

"As you know, we made Agent Walker happy when three weeks ago we closed the Wienerlicious. We have refitted it as a frozen yogurt shop, the Orange Orange. Her cover now will be as the manager of that shop. We also used the time to work beneath the shop, under the cover of extensive City repairs to the gas and water lines. We created a basement beneath the Orange Orange.

"We made Mr. Bartowski happy when, under the same cover of gas and water line work, we shut down the Buy More as well.

"While the shops were closed, we connected the Orange Orange basement to a basement under the Buy More—a basement that has been there since before the current, above-ground structure. It was sealed up long ago. We unsealed it.

"The connected basements will be your new base of operations. We've taken to calling it 'Castle'. It will be ready for use in another week or so, once the computers and other necessary devices are installed and the other construction work is finished. Your good work got made this possible. People in high places are pleased with you."

Graham took over. "We also have a report on Agent Larkin.

"As you know, we moved him from Burbank to another facility immediately after the Marlin incident. We were worried about Fulcrum finding him there since that is where we intercepted the pod containing him. We also wanted to intensify the work on his psychological and physical rehab and the best doctors were here.

"He has been doing well. Ah, he is doing much better. I am sad to say that although he has been given a clean bill of health psychologically, it is unclear whether he will ever again have full motor functionality.

"His doctors fear that his limp is permanent. He has tremors in his hands that interfere with his marksmanship. Still, it could all be much worse.

"I knew you would want to know how he was doing. He is eager to return to work and I am… _We are_ considering how best to use him."

Beckman: "But none of those things, important though they are, is the reason why we had you assemble this morning. We have had you assemble so that we can give you all some downtime. You have all been working very hard, and very successfully. We have decided that you need a change of scene.

"Major, I have heard a rumor that your old special forces unit is getting together here in DC? And I have also heard a rumor that you would like to attend?"

Casey nodded at Beckman with a barely audible grunt.

"Good. Then you will have a chance to spend time with old friends and to perhaps undergo a few recertification procedures here.

"Agent Walker, we are going to send you and Mr. Bartowski to Lake Tahoe.

"We have a minor matter there for you to take care of, and then you may spend the rest of the week enjoying the area. A protection detail will be in town and will be available to watch over Mr. Bartowski should you want to spend some time on your own. I would like you to remain near Mr. Bartowski."

"Yes," Sarah said, her inflection flat.

"Good. Then we will expect you all to be back in Burbank in a week. Agent Walker, can you stay so that we can brief you on the matter in Tahoe?"

Sarah nodded as Casey and Chuck walked outside into the courtyard.

* * *

Graham began. "Agent Walker, there actually is nothing we want you to do in Tahoe except watch over Mr. Bartowski. An agent will come by at some point and give you a package, but there will be nothing of importance in it. We simply want to keep Bartowski from thinking that this is about him—but it is.

"There _will_ be a protection detail available so that you need not keep watch over him 24/7. Use them to take some time for yourself but don't leave the area.

"We are worried, " Graham turned briefly toward Beckman, then back, "that all of this is getting to be too much for him. He is tired and withdrawn. He's thinner. He has not complained of being ill, and, so far as we know, the Intersect is not causing him any problems.

"But he cannot keep up this pace. We want to see how he responds to some time away from the Intersect and from missions. Keep him away from television and newspapers to minimize flashes. Entertain him, make him happy…"

Graham looked at Sarah hard, and Sarah noticed Beckman look hard at Graham as he did so.

Sarah's features matched her flat tone. "Yes, sir." Graham's face showed a second of puzzlement, maybe even of anger in response, but he said nothing more.

Beckman finished the session. "Enjoy Tahoe, Agent. You and Mr. Bartowski have tickets waiting at the airport. Your flight leaves Burbank for Reno later this afternoon, at 5:12 pm. There'll be a rental car there. " The monitor went black.

* * *

Chuck swung his suitcase into the Porsche's trunk—next to Sarah's. He smiled to himself. Her suitcase was small and light. He had moved it over to make room for his. His was bigger and heavier. They'd be lucky to jam it into the overhead.

He was still smiling when he got in the car. Sarah noticed, smiled back, and then asked: "What?"

"I was just thinking about you telling me you came with baggage on our first date."

Sarah's eyes misted a little and she turned away from Chuck, looking in her purse for her keys. She looked up and saw Chuck dangling them from his hand. She took them.

Chuck went on. "Actually, I am the one who over-packs. I guess I packed two of everything."

"That's ok, so long as it all comes with one of you." Sarah reached over and patted Chuck's knee, then gave it a squeeze.

"So— _vacation_. What's really going on, Sarah?"

Sarah was silent for a minute. "Well, we _are_ on vacation." She started the car and headed for the airport.

"But we have a mission, right. I mean, Beckman made it sound like it was not any saving-the-world mission."

"No, Chuck. _We_ don't have a mission. I do, though, sort of.

"I am supposed to get you away from the Intersect, away from flashes, and…entertain you. Then I am to let Graham and Beckman know how I think you are doing. They are worried about you. Frankly, Chuck, I am too. You've lost weight. You look exhausted. Leading this triple life, Chuck-Intersect-Piranha, is wearing you down."

"I know. I now dream in triplicate. Anyway, really? You are stuck looking after me?"

Sarah's face dropped. "Of course not, Chuck." Her face lifted into a growing smile. "I am on vacation _with you_. I believe I can get you to forget your troubles for a while, Mr. Piranha."

Chuck shuffled his eyebrows and grinned at her. Then he became serious. " _Entertain_ me? Was that the word?"

Sarah's eyes focused hard on nothing available to be seen. "Yes. That is the exact word. Graham's. It's the closest he has ever come to ordering me to, or the first time he ever has ordered me to…sleep with an asset." She frowned.

Chuck frowned too. Sarah's eyes stayed on the road. "That's odd." She paused, then stopped. "But there is something going on with our bosses, Chuck.

"When Graham said that, Beckman watched him say it, and she did not like it—or something. _Something_ is going on. I don't think our bosses are on the same page."

Chuck's eyes stayed the road. "Huh….yeah. Uh, good news about Bryce, though, on balance, right? I had been worrying about him, wondering what was going on."

"Yes, good news about Bryce—on balance."

* * *

Chuck settled into the passenger seat. He did not want to think about Graham's almost-order or order.

Chuck had to admit it: he was exhausted. He had been in a full sprint for a month, solid.

He had worked with Ellie as often as he could. He had worked in the Chuck Pen at the Buy More. He had worked at home. He had also been doing whatever Graham and Beckman wanted, going on missions.

Best of all, but least frequent of all, he had spent as much time as he could alone with Sarah. They had only managed two truly free nights to themselves. She had stayed with him a couple of times at his place too, but Chuck had not wanted to push the issue with the surveillance, so they just _slept_ together as they had done before the kiss.

Chuck and Ellie had been making progress. They knew they could not get the Intersect out until they knew how it got in and how it worked once it got in Chuck's head.

Their dad's notes shed tremendous light on all this, and, other than his slowly growing relationship with Sarah, one of the few pleasures of the last month had been a growing respect, even awe, he and Ellie had come to feel for their dad. Their dad was a genius. He was a little off, too; they could not deny that. But the scope of his imagination, the dexterity of his problem-solving skills—they were overwhelming.

He and Ellie now had a working understanding of how the Intersect got into Chuck's head. They also had a partial understanding of the cognitive architecture of the Intersect, how it stationed itself in and worked in tandem with the brain.

 _In tandem_ : that was the bad news, the Intersect and his brain were not perfectly in tandem. Ellie had also discovered, by putting together what they knew about the Intersect with the emerging picture of its interaction with Chuck's brain, that the Intersect was harming him. His headaches were tracking damage. Just a little, so far, and nothing permanent. But continued use of it was likely to drive up the rate of damage and, at a certain point, that damage would be permanent.

Ellie's best guess was that they had a few months before Chuck got to that point. Ellie had an inkling about how to prevent the harm or at least to slow it, but she had not yet shared it with Chuck.

A few days after his dad had sent Chuck the computer, another small box showed up at the Buy More. Inside had been ten thousand dollars, divided up and stuffed in sandwich bags. There was also a plain letter-sized envelope with a yellow post-it note stuck to it:

 _Use it to help with your head, or use it to help you hide._

 _Remember, Ace, you can always run. I can help with that._

 _Dad_

In the envelope, Chuck found a passport and IDs and credit cards. The passport and IDs all bore pictures of Chuck, however, like the credit cards, all bore a different name, Charlie Smith.

The worst part of the month for Chuck was that while Sarah was, slowly and painfully, sharing little bits and pieces of herself with him—not many, not momentous, but a start—he was keeping bits and pieces of himself from her.

He recognized one day that he and she had, in effect, switched places. She was sharing, he was withholding. He was starting to wonder if they would ever manage to be wholly at the same place, wholly at the same time.

Maybe in Tahoe.

* * *

Diane Beckman stood next to her office window, watching her portion of the Washington skyline turn from red to blue to black. She was fatigued, physically and morally. The last weeks had pushed her nerves to their limit.

Because she was so small, she was able to rest her hands on the window sill and lean forward, carefully resting her forehead against the chill glass. She could see her face, drawn and pale, staring back at her.

It had been bad enough to be a woman in the ultimate boys' club, the military of her youth, but to be a small, attractive, intelligent woman was to be four-times cursed. She had made it though. Brains, determination and an iron discipline had taken her through the ranks and to the top of the NSA. But it had been such a costly rise. She was paying costs again.

Langston Graham was due at her office soon. He had been hard to get time with since he got back from his mysterious, out-of-town trip a few weeks ago. Beckman had ideas about where he had gone, and why, but she had no proof, so she would not be saying anything about it. Let him think he had her fooled. He regarded fooling her as easy; good, let him think so. It would not be the first time she'd beat a man with his own ego as her weapon, with the jawbone of an ass. Fooling her. The fool.

Beckman had been playing a dangerous game. From the time Bartowski was discovered, she had been behind the curve. Graham's agent, Walker, had gotten to Bartowski first. Graham had chosen her because he had every expectation—every intention, really—to kill Bartowski. She was Graham's girl for that job. Graham's Wildcard Enforcer.

Luckily, Casey had gotten to Burbank in time to get into the mix, and, even more luckily, Bartowski almost immediately proved to be a goose that laid golden eggs. He had stopped the assassination of General Stanfield (what a pompous windbag he was!) and prevented many collateral deaths and injuries.

If you stepped back from the missions that Bartowski had undertaken with Walker and Casey, and looked at them carefully, it was clear that he was enabling the two of them to do things they would not have done on their own and in ways they would not have done them on their own. Beckman had stepped back. Graham would not or could not. Yes, Bartowski seemed like—and occasionally was—a bungler. But more often than not he was weirdly, almost occultly resourceful. He had a remarkable imagination and a flexible skill set that, if not a spy's, was spy-adjacent.

Diane had to fight stereotypes in her own time enough to know that while clinging to stereotypes made thinking easier, it also caused it to lose necessary friction with reality. Seeing Bartowski for who he really was—that was not easy. Beckman had not done it at first, she admitted. But over time, largely because of Walker's attitude toward Bartowski, she began to see that he was unique. Not just because he had the _Intersect_ , but because _he_ had the Intersect.

Graham had touted the Intersect as the perfect add-on to the already perfect spy, someone fully in control of his or her emotions, someone with no ties to any other person, someone to whom existence was exhausted in the mission. No doubt Graham had been fantasizing about Walker while saying that. He no doubt believed his blond killer would be unstoppable if she had the Intersect.

Who knew whether Graham would have gone that way or not? Beckman was not sure. Larkin and Fulcrum had detoured Graham's plan.

Beckman would have objected to Walker as part of the detail to protect and utilize Bartowski, except for two facts. (1) Walker had done a year of Secret Service duty with the President, and so protection detail was in her skill set, not just assassination and infiltration. (2) It was clear from the beginning that there was a tie between Walker and Bartowski. Bartowski did not respond to threats well. To any kind of manipulation well. He was simply not going to be a normal asset if he indeed could be considered an asset at all. But he responded to Walker.

Beckman sighed, her breath fogging the cold glass of the window.

She went back to her desk, picked up her nearly empty tumbler, and drank the remains of her whiskey.

Predictably, Graham had missed the second of the two facts and underestimated the importance of the first.

Graham was so convinced that he had fashioned a killing machine in Walker that he ignored how effective she was when on the Presidential detail. He took that to be Walker's chameleon-like adaptability. But Beckman was almost certain it was because Walker's instinct to protect and defend went deeper in her than her Graham-created habits of destruction, of assassination and killing.

And he was so convinced that he had fashioned a killing machine, that he simply overlooked Walker's obvious feelings for Bartowski or discounted them as an act. Of course, since Graham barely gave Bartowski any thought at all, other than to plan his death, he missed Bartowski's obvious feelings for Walker. Beckman was certain—not just almost certain—that Bartowski had touched something very deep in Walker, a hidden reserve of love, of tenderness and warmth. By touching it, he had freed it to work like a leaven in her character. Beckman could see that Sarah Walker had changed and was changing.

Beckman poured herself more whiskey—always good to have a little in her when Graham was around. Not enough to make her sloppy, of course, but enough to allow her to stand to be in the same room with him.

She looked at the two files on her desk before she put them away. One was Bartowski's, the other, Walker's. Bartowski's was far thicker than Walker's. But that was because Bartowski was the Intersect and because Walker was Graham's personal killer. There were reams of information on Bartowski, although Beckman knew that much of the most salient information was not in the file. There was almost nothing on Walker.

Beckman had to track down that information herself, and it had taken her and her best computer team many weeks of careful, deliberate work. She now had a large dossier on Walker, although she did not keep _it_ in her office. The one on her desk was the one Graham supplied to her.

Sara Walker was Eliza Doolittle in Graham's warped re-writing of _Pygmalion_.

Graham had found a young woman, a girl, really, who had already been subjected to years of personal instability, who had hardly, if ever, known a home, sure parental love or even lasting friendship, and he had remorselessly plunged that girl repeatedly into the elongated shadows and raw terrors of the spy world.

Her early test scores—intelligence tests and psychological tests—showed that she had a fine mind and delicate emotions. Her years with her father had taught her how to slow her mind and how to numb her emotions. She had learned to do so in order to garner praise from him and to keep herself from misery.

Better to feel nothing than to feel misery—or so it must have seemed to Walker. Beckman thought that was false, but she understood how it could seem true. It had at one time to Beckman too. She glanced at her tumbler.

Graham worked hard to enhance the damage, to deprive her of any tendency to think at all except within mission parameters and to get her to forget that she had emotions. He had recruited her, unofficially, while she was in high school. Her official recruitment came while she was studying at Harvard.

From the beginning, Graham had kept her busy, even frantic, and kept her under intense pressure, sometimes by making veiled threats against her father, sometimes by reminding her that she had no place else to go if Graham rejected her. She had been allowed almost no downtime, no breaks. She had survived in the dark darkly for almost a decade.

Graham had used her to make his career. Her brilliance in the field was always presented as his strategical or tactical brilliance. He kept her file thin not only because he wanted her to remain a mystery, but because he claimed credit for much that she had done.

A few weeks ago, Beckman had taken a terrible gamble. She had ordered Chuck bunkered, even ordered Casey to kill him if necessary. Either of those things could have happened. She had not wanted either to happen. Beckman shuddered and felt her stomach lurch, the whiskey sloshing around. She had done it because she had to make Graham believe she could make the hard call, the call he would make.

She had done what she could to keep it from happening, primarily by making sure that Walker stayed with Bartowski. Walker was not about to let anything happen to Bartowski. Beckman had been reasonably sure the team could prevent her orders from being carried out. Reasonably sure.

But it had been a long few hours for Beckman, as she knew it must have been for them. Her faith in her team— _her_ team, not Graham's—had been justified. They had found the receiver and found the Pita Palace girl. But Beckman still had not recovered from the ordeal.

Beckman had been forced into the gamble because she knew that Graham would have used any other action against her when he returned. If she had shown her genuine concern for the team, in particular for the team members, Graham would have portrayed that to anyone who would listen as a _woman's_ failing, as her allowing her emotions to get in the way of her job. He would have tried to elbow her out of the picture, gotten rid of Casey, and pursued whatever plan he had in mind when all this started.

Graham had more political clout than she did. Politics had never been of interest to her. A shoddy business at best. If she made a mistake, Graham would pull in favors, threaten the disclosure of secrets; he could bring more pressure to bear on her than she could on him. At least right now.

Graham would make a fatal mistake soon. His arrogance assured it. His thinly veiled order to Walker earlier in the day was, if not a fatal mistake, a mistake. Graham had not only given an order that made Beckman's bile rise, he had revealed that he was beginning to worry about his killing machine, his Enforcer. But his attempt to reassert control over her was an order to do something that Beckman was sure went hard against who Walker was and was becoming.

Walker was not a seductress, in the technical sense of that term, _Graham's_ sense of that term. Perhaps there had been occasions, Beckman's file was of course not complete…but clearly, there was no disposition to be a seductress. That had always been a dividing line between, say, Carina Miller and Walker. If Walker had feelings for Bartowski as Beckman was convinced she did, then ordering her to steal what she wanted to be given (perhaps had been given)—that was not going to sit well with Walker, to put it mildly. Graham, fortunately, was so confident of his ability to wield Walker he had forgotten she was a two-edged sword.

She was fully capable of severing the hand that fed her.

* * *

Beckman sat down at her desk. For better or worse, things were in motion

The Tahoe trip was Graham's way of reminding Walker that she was his to control. Beckman hoped it would give Walker and Bartowski a chance to come to a stable understanding. Graham was right about one thing, although he misunderstood it. Walker was unstoppable with the Intersect, _with_ _Bartowski_.

Beckman's intercom buzzed. Her secretary reported that Graham was waiting. It was time to talk about Bryce Larkin.


	11. Chapter 10: Sundown Riddles

A/N Tahoe. We will be here a little while. Quite a bit to do.

Thanks to everyone for reading and for all the thoughtful reviews and PMs. I am trying to respond to all.

D. O. C. (Don't Own Chuck)

* * *

CHAPTER 10 Sundown Riddles

* * *

 _I will call the deep protectors out of the ground_

 _The givers of wine_

 _The writers of peace and waste_

 _And sundown riddles_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 87_

* * *

Chuck jammed his suitcase in the overhead. He couldn't get the door to close after repeated tries. Sarah was sitting in the window seat, watching him grow more frustrated, and smirking. One of the flight attendants came by—a small brunette—and she reached up on her tiptoes and slammed the door with one hand. She walked past Chuck down the aisle, and Sarah's smirk turned into body-shaking, yet mostly silent laughter.

"Oh, so my high-pitched screaming on missions is not humiliation enough?" Chuck asked this in a stage whisper as he sat down in the aisle seat beside Sarah. She wiped her eyes and leaned over to kiss him. "You are wonderful, Chuck. I love…to laugh with you."

Chuck swallowed, then he arranged his features and purposefully narrowed his eyes to slits: "You mean _at_ me." Sarah started laughing again.

"'With', 'at', 'near'—they are all good, Chuck." She leaned in and kissed him again. He wiggled in his seat, trying to get comfortable. She noticed his knees pressed hard against the seat in front of him. "They don't make these seats for someone as tall as you, do they?"

"No, and they don't make the overhead bins for someone as weak as me." He played at pouting. She rested her head on his shoulder and took his hand, pulling it into her lap.

A little boy and his mother got on the plane late. He was dawdling and she was flustered. He climbed into the seat in front of them, but turned, facing Chuck and Sarah. He smiled at them—big blue eyes and a mop of curly blond hair. His bold look was followed by a shy wave, and then he finally did as his mother had been repeatedly telling him to do: he sat down.

Chuck and Sarah glanced at each other simultaneously. They knew they had shared a thought, although neither was comfortable enough with the thought openly to acknowledge having it.

They sat in happy, wordless togetherness as the plane taxied and took off.

They both watched the _Fasten Seat Belt_ light overhead until the bell sounded and the light went out. Chuck reached up and turned off the overhead light. Sarah put her head back on his shoulder.

After a few minutes, Sarah spoke in a low voice.

"Chuck, do you know why Graham sent me to you?" Her head remained on his shoulder, her eyes closed.

"Because you are the best, Sarah, the CIA's best."

"But have you ever thought what that means, Chuck? What would I be…best at?"

"Uh…I don't know…spy stuff?"

"Chuck, really think. Why did Graham send me to you?"

Chuck took a sharp breath. A few seconds passed.

Finally, he spoke, his voice pinched with emotion. "Graham anticipated killing me. He sent the person he could depend on to do the job. He sent you expecting you to be my executioner, Sarah…"

She said nothing but she put her other hand around his so that she was cradling his hand in both of hers.

"He sent me to execute you, Chuck. I mean he never exactly gave me that order. The night you picked me up for our date, I was on the phone with him until you knocked on my door. I asked him what I should do if you ran. He said: 'Kill him.'"

She was quiet. Suddenly, the little boy in front of them popped up from his seat, his arms extended in front of him, his small fingers interlaced, except for his index fingers—they were pointing side-by-side at Chuck.

"Bang! Bang! You're dead!"

Sarah jerked in her chair and gasped. The boy's mother grabbed him and pulled him back down into his seat, mouthing, "I'm so sorry!" over her shoulder to Chuck and Sarah.

Sarah removed her hands from Chuck's hand and she turned to the window, sliding up the blind. She stared into emptiness. Chuck reached over and very gently rubbed her shoulder. She did not respond.

* * *

Sarah was unreachable for the rest of the flight. Once on the ground, they made their way to the rental car company and got the car that had been reserved for them, a roomy SUV. Chuck put their luggage in the back and closed the rear door. He held out the keys to Sarah, but she shook her head and got in the passenger side.

Chuck got in and started the car. He took a minute to fiddle with the car's GPS. He put in the address of the cabin at which they were going to stay, and then drove from the parking lot.

It took about an hour and a half to get to the cabin. It was fully dark by the time they got to Tahoe. But Sarah had, mile by mile, begun to recover. By the time they got to the cabin, she was smiling and joking again.

* * *

The cabin was wonderful, large and comfortable, with all the amenities. Chuck was carrying the bags. He moved toward a bedroom and stopped when he realized there were two bedrooms.

"Ah, Sarah, there are two bedrooms…Which one do you want?"

"You are kidding me, aren't you, Chuck. There are two bedrooms here but _one couple_. You will not be horizontal by yourself for one single minute on this trip, not if I can help it. _I am sleeping with my_ boyfriend."

Chuck turned to face Sarah.

"Boyfriend? Really? Are you my _girlfriend_? Are we there yet?"

"Good God, Chuck, yes. What did you think we were? _Spies with benefits_? I'm sorry, but I did that with Bryce. I am not doing it again, especially not with you."

Chuck's smile hurt his cheeks. "But…uh…I mean, isn't that kind of fast? We've only been dating a month." He widened his eyes, pretending innocence, then winked at her and walked into the larger of the two bedrooms. Sarah followed him in and kissed him after he put the suitcases down.

"No, Chuck. We have only been sleeping together for a month. We've been dating since the El Compadre. Well, maybe not _dating_ , not exactly, since then—but we have been a couple, we have been together since then, even if neither of us knew it, even if one or both of us denied it."

"I feel the same way, Sarah. We've been together for a while." Chuck's gaze drifted into warm unfocus: "Sarah Walker is my _girlfriend_!" Sarah tilted her head and looked at him, grinning. His gaze re-focused and he mock-swooned onto the bed, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead. Sarah shook her head at him and then imitated the mock-swoon and fell beside him. "Chuck Bartowski is my _boyfriend_!"

Chuck rolled over and slipped his arms around her.

"Now," Sarah said, a note of authority creeping into her tone, "I think I boasted about being able to distract the Piranha. Prepare to be…distracted."

Chuck smirked. "One thing you should know, Agent Walker, before you begin to distract me."

"Oh, and what is that, Mr. Piranha?"

"The Piranha bites!" Chuck leaned forward and bit her gently where her neck met her shoulder. He felt rather than heard her sigh.

"Sarah? Are you ok?"

"Oh, yeah. Bite me again, please, Mr. Piranha."

* * *

"Girlfriend Sarah?"

"What, Boyfriend Chuck?"

"Do you think you would still like me if I didn't have the Intersect?"

Sarah did not respond immediately. "Yes," she said finally. "I'm sorry, Chuck, I did not hesitate because my answer is unclear to me. I just want this to be settled between us. I had to decide how to do that. Chuck, did I know you had the Intersect at the El Compadre?"

"No."

"What did I tell you there?"

"That you liked me."

"Did I find out you had the Intersect before we got to the club later?"

"No."

"What did I do with you there, for your there?"

"You danced with me...and for me."

"Is that _all_ you have to say about that, Chuck?"

"Um…"

"Do you have that song on your iPod?" Chuck nodded. "Good. Put it on." He did, rolling over to plug the iPod into the small portable speaker he had earlier taken from his suitcase.

Sarah stood up, slowly, for dramatic effect, letting the sheet that had been covering her fall in stages back onto the bed. She reached out for Chuck and pulled him from beneath it. "Let me remind you how that dance goes, and let me show you how I was wishing the night of dancing would end. All _before_ I knew you had the Intersect."

The music played. Sarah began to sway against him.

* * *

Sarah couldn't sleep.

Even after all the love-making. Even after they had each had a vacation-celebrating glass of wine.

Their conversation on the plane had come back to her as she fell asleep, and it prevented her fall. Had could she have gone from this man's intended executioner to his girlfriend, his real girlfriend? How could he sleep there so peacefully, knowing his girlfriend was a killer?

Sarah tried to calm herself.

 _But, Sarah, you_ are _a killer._ _The body count is not_ that high _, I know. Graham knew better than to overuse you, even if he never let you rest. The scalpel blunts through overuse. He found other uses for you._

 _After the early kills, he used your reputation, the fear of you, the conviction everyone had that Graham had a bloody contract with Death herself…_ that _became the primary weapon for Graham._

 _But that is carrion comfort, isn't it? A body count of one is enough to stain you forever. Some bad reputations can never be escaped._

 _The problem for you is that you can't just tell Chuck a number. A number is an abstraction. You never killed abstractions. You killed people—and, let's face it, not always with mercy or with remorse._ _You have to tell him_ that. _The details._

 _Yes, you feel remorse now, sure. Is there a statute of limitations on remorse? Can you really feel remorse for something you did ten years ago if in the intervening years you have not felt remorse?_

Stop asking me these questions! You know I don't know the answers because you don't know the answers.

It's true—I didn't feel remorse. But that's not because I felt something else, something horrible, like satisfaction or pride in it. I did not feel remorse because I did not feel _anything_. I did not feel. Full stop.

 _But you were proud. You were the best. Graham's golden-haired golden girl. Wildcard Enforcer. You got a charge out of the titles._

Yes, like I got a charge out of dad's praise when I helped with a successful con. I don't know how to explain it. He taught me to separate the end from the means. I knew better—and I didn't. How is that possible? I wanted his praise, and, as long as I got it, I made myself forget how I got it. Graham discovered that…disconnect—and he widened it.

 _Are there any ends that justify, not just the means, but also the_ forgetting _of the means?_

I once thought so. Or I thought I thought so: the greater good.

 _Come on, Sarah. You had an Ethics class at Harvard. You got an A. You knew then that utilitarianism was hogwash, an unworkable mathematical joke, not the theory of a successful moral life. Dickens killed Utilitarianism in_ Hard Times.

I know. To appeal to the greater good is to concede that what is being justified is unjustifiable. There's always something else that is the real motivation for doing it, and it is almost always something foul. _The greater good_. Why was I willing to accept that? I knew better—and I didn't.

 _Well, I knew better—and I didn't, too._

You are and are not me…

Sarah's past finally let her fall asleep.

* * *

Chuck wasn't asleep, actually.

He could feel Sarah tense and un-tense beside him. He knew she was struggling with her thoughts. He wanted desperately to help. He did not know how. He had a sense of what she was struggling with. The events on the plane had no doubt come back to her. He knew that any future they could have depended on whether she could forgive herself for her past.

The future.

His mind began to race.

Sarah thought the problem was whether _he_ could forgive her for her past—or she seemed often to think that was the problem. Chuck was confident he could forgive her, confident, in fact, that he already had. If he had any illusions, it was not about who she had been, but perhaps about who she could be, about the sort of future she could choose and live happily in with him.

The future.

Did they have one? Or was this just for now, until Sarah was reassigned or until he got rid of the Intersect? She might really love…like him independent of the Intersect, but that did not settle the question of whether she would choose a future with him if he did not have the Intersect.

Would he be willing to keep the Intersect if it was the only way to have a future with her? Having a five-year plan but not having chosen the font was just a long-winded way of saying you had no plan for the future. Blank pages were blank pages.

He had not put it into words before but he did now: he wanted Sarah to be his wife, not just his girlfriend. He wondered if she had ever thought about that—about marrying him. He peered over at her. She was asleep at last. He pulled the sheet up around her shoulders, tucking her in more securely.

What were the rules, the regulations, for CIA agents and marriage? He needed to look that up…

Chuck's future finally let him fall asleep.


	12. Chapter 11: Damaged Goods

A/N Tahoe. Oh, and DC. Still assembling the necessaries for the full second arc. Thanks, readers, reviewers, and PMers!

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 11 Damaged Goods

* * *

 _...And you cannot be nowhere by issuing a decree: "I am now nowhere!"_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 38_

* * *

The sunlight was blinding. It wasn't just that the day was unusually clear and bright, it was also that this was the first day in over a month that Bryce Larkin was outside. Earlier in the day, he had been discharged from the hospital. Before he had been able to leave, though, he had a meeting with Langston Graham. They had discussed his new assignment.

Bryce took a few unsure steps on the sidewalk. Despite the intense therapy he had been through, he still found walking with a cane a little unnatural. Once he got started with his new assignment, he still faced a long road to recovery and a lot more rehab.

He stopped at the street corner, reminding himself that he had nowhere, in particular, he had to be. He was not due to report to his new assignment for almost a week.

The CIA had gotten him a room at a good hotel in downtown Washington. The hotel was too far to walk, especially for him, now, but he could grab a taxi. He could see a park ahead of him on the next block. There were small booths along the sidewalk, with vendors selling food and jewelry and candles and so on.

It was not normally something Bryce would have paid attention to, but everything outside the hospital this morning looked awash with bright color and interest. Why not look around, maybe talk to someone? He hadn't talked to anyone but spooks and spook doctors and nurses in weeks. He'd be happy to talk about the weather at this point, or bread recipes, as long as the person he was talking to was not carrying a clipboard and evaluating him.

He limped along to the park and slowed his pace as he got to the first booth. He scanned the table full of jewelry and passed on to the next. A woman was selling hand-decorated scarves. Bryce stopped and looked at one, blue with an intricate design. He wondered if Sarah would like it. The woman at the booth had her back turned to him, rearranging one of the displays. Bryce cleared his throat. She turned around. She was probably in her early forties, and quite lovely.

She smiled at Bryce. Bryce knew that although he was not as handsome as he had once been, he still looked good and would soon look even better. His hair had grown back and he had recovered some of his weight and strength. His smile was still a weapon and he fired it at her. She returned fire with her own attractive smile.

"Would you like that scarf? It's beautiful, my favorite in the booth. I could wrap it for you, Mister...?"

Bryce left his smile off-safety. "Anderson, Bryce Anderson. Yes, I would like it. And I would love it if you could wrap it. It's for my wife, my _ex_ -wife…The once Mrs. Anderson. I'm hoping she may want to try again. I'm not sure she will. We haven't been together for a while."

The woman smiled shyly up at Bryce as she folded the scarf into a small box. "I imagine she will have a hard time resisting that scarf…and that smile."

She looked back down quickly and Bryce began to feel like himself for the first time in a long time.

"Say, I see a coffee shop down the street, " Bryce began, "and I haven't had a decent cup in a while. What say I go and get us both one?"

The woman could hardly hide her pleasure at the offer. "That would be terrific...Bryce."

"I'll pay you when I get back with the coffee. What would you like?"

"Oh," she said, her smile still in place and her eyes inviting, "I'm easy. Just a plain black coffee."

Bryce started up the street toward the coffee shop. There was no reason he needed to spend his first night out of the hospital alone.

* * *

Later that night, Bryce watched the woman put her clothes on in his hotel room. She carefully kept her eyes from making contact with his. After she slipped on her shoes, she finally met his gaze and gave him a strained smile. "Thanks for dinner, Bryce. I…uh…It was nice to meet you." She moved quickly to the door and slipped out of it.

After he heard the click, Bryce turned his gaze to the wall. As if the cane and the shaky hands were not bad enough.

* * *

Chuck and Sarah had spent a day together unlike any they had ever had. They had gotten up late. Sarah had been able to get Chuck to go for a run with her, although he only ran part of the distance she did, and then he waited for her as she ran several more circuits on the long circular trail, and ran with her back to the cabin. They made breakfast and ate it on the deck.

They went shopping together, wandering aimlessly but satisfyingly along inside malls and along the street, stopping to admire items or window displays, or to laugh together. They had coffee. Eventually, they had a late lunch. It was all so abnormal—because it was all so _normal_.

Sarah knew that the protection detail was in town. But they were to be used at her discretion. She had told them when she called them after breakfast that she did not expect to need them, but that she would let them know if she did.

They were under no surveillance. They had no schedule but their own: none.

They had found a little café for lunch. They sat in one corner. The bottle of wine they had ordered with lunch was mostly finished, but they were lingering over it.

Sarah was doing the unthinkable. She was telling Chuck about high school. She could barely believe it as the words slowly leaked out, and then began to gain speed. He sat in shocked silence.

"...and so I was always the new kid. My dad cut my hair—not because he _could_ but because he was cheap. I had braces. I was trying to learn to play the violin, but we never stayed any one place for long enough for me to make much progress. The high school orchestra director just sat me behind the other violins and told me to play _softly_."

As Sarah said the word, she adopted the man's mannerism and inflection, and, as Chuck laughed, he was again reminded of why she was so good at what she did. She missed nothing. She was a truly gifted mimic. She could zero in immediately on the feature of a person's speech or posture or movement that was most distinctive to that person. Her ability to slide from cover to cover was anchored in the careful attention she paid to the people around her.

"I had a crush on the captain of the football team." Chuck grinned at her. "I know, I know. Cliché. He was an ass, predictably, but all the girls wanted him, wanted the status that came with him, I guess. He was dating the head cheerleader, Heather Somebody-or-Other. And, yes, I went to high school in Archie Comics, USA (actually, it was…San Diego). Anyway, she saw me swooning over him, and she found this awful poem I had written about him. I dropped it in the hallway. I think it actually contained the word, 'gibbous', although I now have no idea what on earth I was describing. The moon, I guess."

"But you hadn't dated the guy or…uh…gotten a close look at all of him?"

"What? No. –Oh, no, Chuck. You did not just turn my fledgling, high school, lovelorn literary efforts into a butt joke, did you? Even worse, one that impugns my honor?"

"Not me."

She kicked him under the table. Hard.

"So she started calling me 'the waning gibbous girl'. I guess she owned an Encyclopedia Brittanica. She knew 'gibbous' also meant _hunchbacked_. She shortened the phrase to WGG, _wag_. Who knows how things happen in high school, but that damn nickname, _wag_ , stuck for a while. Sometimes, just for variation, they called me _Quasimodo_. I can't look at the night sky without old pains from high school." She laughed at herself and Chuck joined her while he rubbed his shin. He knew he would use those nicknames only if he wanted to sign his own death certificate. The thought of Sarah Walker being called Quasimodo was absolutely bizarre.

Sarah fell silent, smiling ruefully to herself in memory. Chuck in that moment understood something he had not understood about his girlfriend. She habitually refused to remember her own past. It wasn't that she spent time remembering it but just refused to share what she remembered. It was that she had taught herself, or someone had taught her, simply to refuse to remember. She was working to keep her past a secret from everyone, yes, but she was working harder to keep it a secret from herself.

When she told Chuck what she had just told him, she told that story to herself—and not just to him—for the first time. His girlfriend was living—at least a large part of the time—as a voluntary amnesiac.

Of course, as she had just shown, she could remember. She just didn't, not most of the time. Not her childhood. Not specific parts of her adult life. It was all there, of course; Sarah was remarkably retentive. It was not (what was the technical term?) _repressed_ , exactly. But it was largely inert, accessible but mostly not accessed.

He hoped the story she had told him would be the beginning of many. She had told him about Harvard—mentioned it, anyway. She had said other, little things. She had revealed what Graham had been expecting to happen between her and Chuck. She had told him about the football captain and her poetry.

Maybe, before the week was over, they could together get hold of more threads of her memory and unspool more of it into the light. He could see her come into clearer focus to herself as she told him these things.

It was a delicate business and she stepped away from him almost as often as she stepped toward him. But, still, her cumulative movement was toward him.

"You know, Chuck, this is the first vacation I have ever had."

"You mean, the first here, in Tahoe?"

"No, the first I have ever had. I've had a few days here and there, before missions, but they were too tense to be enjoyed. I've had the occasional adrenaline and alcohol post-mission night on the town with Carina. Bryce and I had some extra time once in Cabo, but we were still undercover. No, this is my first vacation. I'm so glad it is with you. I want to go back to the cabin. And you know what I want to do? Take a nap with you. People do that, don't they?"

"Yeah, Sarah, people do that."

* * *

Beckman was not pleased by Graham's plan for Larkin. She was _not_ pleased. She was not surprised, however. She had anticipated Graham's move. Part of the reason she had pressed Graham to send Bartowski and Walker to Tahoe had been to counter Graham's move. She'd have to wait to see how it all turned out.

She was sure Graham was rushing Larkin. Although his psych evals had come back clean, Beckman was less than sure they should be trusted, that Larkin should be trusted. Larkin seemed to have no memory of what had been done to him, but given the trail of pain the scars on his chest and his head represented, it was strange that he had no memory of his time with Fulcrum. Still, the doctors were the doctors. Beckman was a general, not a general practitioner, and she knew to keep her worries to herself.

Perhaps Beckman was just too bothered by the physical damage to Larkin to believe that there was no answering psychological damage.

However that went, the fact was that Graham had a strong argument, and she really had no counterargument other than her dislike of Graham and a gut feeling about Larkin. Her gut feelings were not often wrong. The insignia on her uniform gave constant testimony to that. But they were wrong from time to time. Maybe this was one of those times.

Her assistant opened the door. "Nurse Pitchard is here, as you asked."

"Good. Send her in, please."

Nurse Pritchard walked in. Rose Pritchard was an excellent psychiatric nurse and had worked for the CIA for several years. She and Beckman had known each other since Rose was a girl. Rose's mother was one of Beckman's oldest friends, and Rose regarded Beckman as a family member. Rose was tall and blonde, strikingly attractive. Her hair was short, her eyes green. She had a ready smile and an easily visible kindness.

Beckman had managed to get Rose assigned to Larkin without Graham knowing there was any tie between them. She wanted to know what Rose thought of the man and his condition.

"Good evening, Rose. I hope it wasn't too much trouble to stop by after hours like this."

Rose laughed. "Oh, come on, Aunt Becky, you know I'm always happy to help you."

"So, what are your impressions of Larkin? No psych mumbo jumbo, no technical terms."

"As always, no time for pleasantries, I see." She smiled indulgently at Beckman and Beckman smiled back. Rose sat down in the armchair opposite Beckman's side of the desk.

"Well, let me see…Bryce Larkin. In many ways, a typical agent, especially one used for deep cover assignments.

"Smart, attractive (still), confident. But fundamentally, a loner. Has a hard time making real friends. His sense of self is very much an embodied sense of self: he strongly identifies as physically attractive and physically competent. I gather he was a track star at Stanford?" Beckman looked down at the closed file on her desk. She didn't need to open it. She nodded.

"He is what folks in the past used to call _a ladies' man_." Beckman took the indirect shot at her age with a slight purse of her lips. Rose liked to tweak her. "Clearly, he has had no trouble keeping the other side of his bed warm."

"Did he…um…make overtures toward you?"

"'Overtures', Aunt Becky? Yes, he made a pass at me—several, in fact. Although I admit they seemed…I don't know…not exactly half-hearted, but…He wanted me, but I also got the feeling I reminded him of someone else, and that the reminder…complicated…what he wanted." Beckman nodded again.

The fact that Rose looked a bit like Walker had been a bonus, one of those weird coincidences that the world throws your way now and then, a way of getting extra information.

"Were you…or, rather, would you have been tempted to let him succeed?"

"Really, Aunt Becky, you are going to _ask_ me that?"

"I'm just curious what your reaction, your own 'embodied' reaction to Larkin was. It will never leave the office, Rose."

"Well…no. He's handsome, sure. Before all this happened, he must have been—what word is there?—beautiful. But there are parts of him missing. I suspect there always have been.

"I can imagine he'd be exciting for a while. But eventually, being with him would be _lonely_. I don't know that Bryce has much to offer a romantic partner beyond what a photograph reveals.

"Even worse, while he was in the hospital, I noticed that he spent a lot of his time…I don't know how to say this…uh…empty. He would stare at the walls. I thought at first he was thoughtful. You know, a deep inner life.

"I realized after a while that Larkin has and had very little inner life, maybe less now than ever. In the hospital, he seemed like he was waiting for something or someone, something to fill him up or turn him on—I don't mean that sexually, although I suppose it could be something like that." Rose looked over Beckman's shoulder, thinking.

"This is hard to make clear. He's waiting for something or someone to tune him in…Have you ever come into a room where a radio was on but had lost its station? The radio is making that annoying static sound, buzzing and cracking. And then you turn the knob and put it directly on the station. You feel relieved and you can imagine that the radio does too." Beckman nodded, smiling, impressed as always by the fertility of Rose's imagination. She was good at her job for a reason. "Larkin seems like that. Like a radio, off-station, full of static, waiting to be dialed in."

"Do you think he will ever be ready to return to the field, to do deep cover work again?"

"Who knows for sure? He has come a long way. But my guess is that he will not."

"Do you think he knows that?"

"At some level, yes. But that job was all he had. Everything else in his life was, I'm guessing, decoration, accessories for that life, all parts of a kind of _James Bond Starter Kit_. Losing that job will be hard, very hard, on him."

* * *

Casey rolled over in his hotel bed. His head weighed about a ton, and it was throbbing like an Apache helicopter.

Damn, his special forces buddies could drink! He had matched them drink for drink. As a result, he now felt more like a match for the geodesic designs in the hotel carpet than a match for the day. Weird patterns crawled behind his eyelids when his eyes were closed. Sunlight screamed at him when his eyes were open.

He reached for the bottle of water he had stationed on the nightstand before he went out. He had anticipated this morning. He took the aspirin that was sitting beside the water.

It had been great being with the men. Johnny Walker in a variety of labels, Cuban cigars, old stories. Brothers-in-arms. But this morning, unmistakable even in the din of pain in his head, he realized he missed his partner, Walker, and the moron, Bartowski. He would never, ever admit this, but he missed his…friends. His team.

He hoped they were finding interesting things to do—and to do to each other (that is if they were a couple; he didn't _know_ they were a couple)—in Tahoe.

The aspirin began to dull the pain in his head. Casey rolled over and went back to sleep. He was on vacation.


	13. Chapter 12: Of Recklessness and Water

A/N More fun in Tahoe. There was a hitch in Fanfiction's get-along yesterday, so I was unable to see reviews until this morning. I will try to catch up on responses but it may take a while. Thanks for reading, reviewing and PMing. You folks are great!

* * *

CHAPTER 12 Of Recklessness and Water

* * *

 _We all have the same anxieties-but we do not use the same words._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 33_

* * *

Sarah woke Chuck up with an amorous kiss. He blinked into consciousness and saw blue eyes and blond hair. Sarah had kissed him, then dropped her chin onto his chest, so that her mouth was obscured from view.

"Morning, Boyfriend Chuck! Guess what I want to do?"

Chuck blinked a couple of times more.

"Guess!"

Chuck's voice sounded raspy from sleep. "Hint?"

"Deep, wet, exciting…"

Chuck's blush brought him all the way to full alert. "Uh, Sarah?"

"I want to go swimming, sweetie! What did you think?"

Chuck reclined his head on his pillow. He had been holding it up. "Nothing."

Sarah snorted. "Right. Right. Nothing. You were hoping I would be Agent 009 and you Agent 006."

Chuck's eyes got big. "Is that a real spy game?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Sarah got up and walked to the dresser, taking out some clothes. Chuck realized she was wearing a deep red bikini. Like virtually anything Sarah wore, it looked good on her. Very good. Especially now that she had set Chuck's mind running along a particular track. Especially because there was so little of it to look good on her, which made it look better.

Chuck got up and hurried into the bathroom before Sarah turned back around. A few minutes later, the shower off, he peeked out. Sarah was no longer in the bedroom. Chuck entered the room, rubbing his arms vigorously with a towel, trying to warm himself. He grabbed some trunks and quickly put them on. Sarah entered the room and took a long hungry look at him.

"You look really nice. Good enough to eat."

Chuck dropped his head in defeat. He folded his a towel in half and held it in front of himself. Sarah chuckled. It was so easy. He did look good. Lean and tall and firm. She made herself stop the list. If she didn't, they'd never get to the water.

* * *

They drove to a parking lot for the place Sarah had chosen for swimming. They had to hike about a mile to the water, but, other than being uphill, the hike was easy. Sarah had put on a long-sleeved Stanford shirt of Chuck's, a pair of shorts and tennis shoes. Chuck had thrown an old sweatshirt over his t-shirt. He too was wearing tennis shoes.

The water was cold at first but they adjusted to it right away. The day was sunny. They swam for a while, and then Sarah talked Chuck into climbing some rocks and diving. She did it first, with predictable grace. He followed her, but, overeager, he over-rotated and slammed into the water on his back.

Before he had surfaced, she was in the water beside him, her strong hands under his arms, making sure he was ok, swimming strongly and pulling him toward the surface. They broke the water. His back was stinging. He was ok otherwise. He told her so.

She looked at him, fear in her eyes. Then she kissed him savagely. She pulled back and gave him a look so serious it stole his breath: "Nothing, Chuck, nothing can happen to you. I cannot lose you."

He was overwhelmed. It was as close as she had ever come to saying that she loved him. He could feel it in her embraces, taste it in her kisses, But this was her almost, almost telling him. She pulled him into an unbridled hug, squeezing him as hard as she could and holding on, her legs scissoring the water. "I'm ok, Sarah. Know that I cannot lose you, either."

* * *

They got out of the water and walked to the nearby lodge, famous for its lemonade. They got one to share and went back to sit on the rocks, lizards in the sun.

"So, Sarah, when are we supposed to get the dummy package?"

"Tomorrow. The drop takes place at a hotel. Shouldn't be any problem. In and out. The envelope is supposed to be empty, although you are not supposed to know that."

"Say, have you ever been in Reno? The world's smallest big city or biggest small city? I know we flew in there, but have you looked around?"

"No, actually, I haven't. You?"

"No. Maybe we could go back for the flight early enough to spend some time there? Don't they have a replica of the Eiffel Tower there?"

"No, Chuck, I think that's in Las Vegas."

"Oh…Still, it sounds kitschy, fun."

"Sure—don't know why not. We can make up our minds later on."

They sat in the sun for another few minutes.

"Chuck, can I tell you…a story?"

"Yes, please."

"It isn't a happy story."

"I don't only like happy stories. I want to hear any story you want to tell me, Sarah."

"It's about a little girl. Call her Lisa. She lives with her dad, out of a car when they were low on money, out of dump hotels when they were flush. By his lights, he loves her. But he is…confused about love, about what it really is. Confused about romantic love, and that's how little Lisa lost her mother. Confused about fatherly love, and that's why little Lisa doesn't really have a father even though she is with her father.

Her father is…a grifter, a confidence man. A man who perverts trust, because he believes that trust is a weakness, a character _flaw_. A person should be faulted for trusting, even punished for it. He teaches Lisa lots of…skills. He teaches her to read people—it is really the only genuine skill her father has.

"The other skills he teaches her are all tricks, deceptions, sleights of hand or of mind. He doesn't teach her to read people so she can help them; he teaches her to read them so she can help him and help herself—to things that do not belong to either of them.

"The little girl is…smart. And she loves her dad in the whole, uncomplicated way young kids love their parents. And she wants him to love her, or at least to take pride in her.

"She lives like this for years, moving constantly, under suspicion herself and suspicious of everyone. The night before prom her sophomore year of high school, her father finds out that a boy—a particular boy—had asked her to prom. She had said no.

"She said no because she knew the boy had asked her only to make his former girlfriend jealous, and because he thought Lisa was lonely enough and pathetic enough to have sex with him after the prom—and the boy wanted that to hurt his former girlfriend.

"The boy was from a very wealthy family, liquid; a family that owned its own _jet_. Lisa's father was furious that she had said no. He told her to call the boy and tell him yes. She refused. He told her again. They screamed at each other. Finally, she told her father—'He wants to go out with me so he can have sex with me—just to hurt his old girlfriend.'

"Her father looks at her and says, without thinking, 'Would that be so bad? We'd have him just where we want him.' Her father in that moment, for that moment, became her…pimp.

"He realized what he had done right away. He took it back. He apologized. She forgave him. He was still her father. He was sorry. He was genuinely sorry. They were under awful pressure: their finances had gone to hell and detectives from past towns were sniffing around and they were going to need to move on soon. But they couldn't afford to leave.

"She forgave him. She put that memory out of her mind until…recently. Still, she could not put the consequences of it out of her life and out of her feelings about herself, the consequences of the way that boy saw her—and the way her father saw her, if only for an instant. She was just a means to an end."

Sarah was quiet. Neither of them had touched the lemonade. The glass stood sweating in the sun.

"Lisa's life has been about ends and means and about justification—and about forgetting. She is afraid to remember. She is afraid of how others will feel about her when they understand what she has to remember if she decides to remember it…There are too many unhappy stories like this one. Not enough happy ones."

Sarah turned to Chuck slowly, cautiously. It took her several seconds to look into his eyes. She found acknowledgment of her pain in them, but no judgment, no pity. She knew then, although she had never doubted it, that he loved her. Not just that he _loved_ her, but that he loved _her_. She knew it then from head to toe. And, she thought maybe, maybe, with some more time and more talk—but maybe, maybe not too much more time—she could, at last, tell him she felt the same way.

Chuck took one of her hands in his and cupped her chin with his other. He spoke one soft word.

"Lisa." Pause. Pause. Pause.

"Irving."

Sarah closed her eyes as an unexpected thrill of pleasure and relief ran through her. She kept her eyes closed for a few seconds. Then she opened them.

Chuck saw a flash of something dangerous in her eyes.

"Graham more or less ordered me to _entertain_ you, Chuck."

"I know. I know. I'm so sorry."

* * *

Later that night, back at the cabin, after eating pizza they had picked up for dinner, Chuck was standing in the kitchen, cleaning up. Sarah had finished her wine and gone into the bedroom before Chuck was aware that she had. He had said something to her and when he got no response, he realized she had gone. He figured she was tired from the swimming and diving.

He stopped in the middle of scrubbing a dish to revisit his image of Sarah gliding from the rocks and into the water, free, happy, and delighting in her athletic gifts for their own sake. It was an image he would keep, an image of the woman who would be his...wife.

He heard Sarah's bare feet on the tile of the floor—odd, since she usually moved like a cat. He looked up and froze in place.

Sarah was wearing the lavender lingerie she had worn to his room the night they were going to pretend to make love. He had, voluntarily and involuntarily, recalled her in that many times. So often, in fact, that for a couple of days his daydreams seemed permanently stained lavender.

Sarah put her arms out and rotated slowly, inviting him to look at her. When she finished her spin, she shot him a look at once provocative and apologetic.

"You liked this, didn't you, Chuck."

His hypnotized gaze was an eloquent answer.

"I'm sorry, Chuck. I did not wear this that night for our cover. I wore it for you. Only for you. I wanted you so badly to choose our actual fake relationship over a possible real one with Lou…But I couldn't be with you, or I thought I couldn't. So I did this reckless thing. I wore this.

"The best I could do was to give you as much of me as the cover would allow, show you as much of me as the cover would allow. I know you couldn't have known, but I wore this as a pledge to you…a pledge that someday I would wear it for you and know that you could take it off of me."

"I'm sorry too, Sarah. I should never have made that awful 'professional' joke. That joke crossed my mind today after you told me Lisa's story." Sarah nodded.

"I just wanted you so much, and I couldn't believe you would toy with me, but I also could not understand why you would wear it. Ellie and Awesome would have believed you were seducing me if you'd shown up in a hard hat and work boots. They knew, they know, how much I lov…want you. I thought you were just being…mean."

"I'm sorry, Chuck, there was a little of that in there too. I was hurt that you were so quickly drawn to Lou and furious that she could actually have you. I wanted to make sure you had a memory to compare her to if she ever wore lingerie for you…I was so jealous, Chuck.

"I think I harbored a fantasy that maybe you would be unable to resist me in it and that you would grab me and kiss me and…and that I would just let you take me. Give in, finally. The first night we made love was not the first night I came to your room without a well-defined plan, Chuck…

"I am wearing this to say I am sorry. Of course, I am wearing it for other reasons too. I am wearing it so that you can take it off of me…eventually."

She turned and walked back to the bedroom. Chuck left the rest of the dishes in the sink.

* * *

Vibrating.

Sarah's phone was vibrating. She rolled carefully out of Chuck's arms and found her phone in the weak morning light. She sat up when she saw who it was.

"General Beckman?"

"Hello, Sarah. I hope you and Mr. Bartowski are relaxing?"

Sarah glanced at Chuck's sleeping form. "Yes, I think we both are."

"I'm counting on it. Today is the drop, as you know. Since it is really only for show, it crossed my mind that maybe we should let Mr. Bartowski handle it. You could talk him through the protocols. For this, there would be very few. And he could get a taste of independent spy work. The protection detail could watch over him so that you could have the day free."

Sarah thought Beckman's idea was not a bad one—at least not about the drop. But Sarah was not going to give up a day with Chuck. She wasn't really willing to give up an hour. But she would if she had to.

"Ok, but I won't need to protection detail. I will let Chuck handle it. I won't watch over him. I will be at the hotel. Will that be satisfactory?"

"That is fine, Agent Walker. I'm glad Mr. Bartowski has been…good company. I take it he has since you are not using the protection detail?"

"Yes, Mr. Bartowski had been good company. He's a moderately charming guy. I've spent time with less pleasant company."

"I am sure, Agent Walker. Well, remember the detail should you need them."

"I will."

Beckman ended the call.

Sarah was surprised (of course, you have to get used to the whims of generals) but not displeased. Teaching Chuck more spycraft seemed like a good idea to her—as long as it was kept within limits. Chuck had the makings of a gifted analyst, even if it was...unclear whether he had the makings of a field agent. Maybe his doing a few small things like this on his own would be the beginning of Graham and Beckman realizing that he was not really an asset in their spy-sense of the term, but that he was a tremendous asset in the ordinary sense.

* * *

Chuck was seated poolside at the luxury hotel. Sarah was inside, looking around in the shops. This was going to be simple. In a few minutes, someone would approach him and give him an envelope. He was to accept it without drawing attention either to the envelope or to the fact that it had been given to him or to the person who gave it to him. Everything should happen as if nothing had happened.

A waiter approached Chuck and handed him a menu as he asked whether Chuck would like something to drink. "Yes, please, sparkling water?" The waiter noted that and left. Chuck opened the menu and a manila envelope slid into his lap. He caught it before it fell to the ground. He pushed it back inside the menu and then looked around the pool. There was an older man reading a newspaper across the pool. A mother and two boys were playing in the water. A couple of college girls were sunbathing. They both seemed to be asleep. The older man seemed to find watching them sunbathe more compelling than his paper.

Chuck opened the menu and looked more closely at the envelope. He knew nothing really turned on any of this, but it was kind of fun pretending to be a spy, pretending to be Sarah. Chuck was puzzled when he noticed that the envelope had his name on it. Provoked, he undid the metal tab and looked inside. There was a smaller manila envelope there. He slid it out.

It was not sealed. He opened it. There was another envelope inside it, this time a standard white letter-sized envelope. But there were also some folded, glossy pages and a note. The note read:

 _If Agent Walker asks to see what you were given, hand her the white envelope._

 _Take a careful look at the other items I have given you. Consider them. Then throw them away before you return to Agent Walker._

 _Are you a gambler, Chuck?_

 _DB_

Chuck looked at what she had sent him. He read it all. He sat for several minutes in a stupor. What was Beckman up to? Was this real?

Splash! And Chuck was showered with cold water. One of the boys had cannonballed into the pool next to where Chuck was sitting. He and his brother were giggling and pointing at Chuck. Water was running down his brown curls and onto his shirt. He laughed with the boys, grabbed his napkin, and wiped his hands, arms and face.

Chuck got up and threw all the paperwork in the trash except the white envelope. He stopped and made sure he had memorized the relevant information, prepared to dig the pages back out of the trash if necessary. It wasn't. He had it.

* * *

Across the pool, the older man folded his newspaper after Chuck left. He smiled and shook his head. "Diane, my little minx, this is a reckless strategy, even for you." He picked up his drink, made a toast to the sky, and walked into the shadows of the lobby.


	14. Chapter 13: All the Way to Reno

A/N1 Tahoe to Reno. Leaving on a jet plane.

Telling stories is a hoot. Especially when you know folks are reading and responding, so thanks, as always for reading, reviewing and PMing.

Don't Own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 13 All The Way to Reno

* * *

 _One more wild hope_

 _Dies of affliction._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 56_

* * *

Chuck had been fidgety all the way to Reno.

He kept humming a song, but one Sarah did not recognize. When she asked, he said it was an REM song. But since she didn't know any of their songs except one, "Losing My Religion", the explanation didn't help. Chuck seemed happy and worried all at once.

When they arrived, about three hours ahead of their scheduled flight time, Sarah found a place for them to park in the area of town to which Chuck had navigated them.

She got out of the rental quickly, but still less quickly than Chuck. He practically bounded out of the car and then around it. He grabbed her and kissed her. His eyes were warm and complicated. He had seemed just slightly off since the drop the other day, but it had gotten worse since they woke up this morning. Building to _this_ : Chuck almost bouncing in place, looking at her in the strangest way.

"Sarah, I am going to run an errand—by myself. It won't take me long. No one knows we're here. I'll be safe. There's something I want to do and something I want to…show you. I'll text you in just a little while with an address."

Sarah had been about to protest when Chuck was gone, vanished, his long legs taking him from her with a speed she had not anticipated. She knew she should chase him, but he seemed so excited and there was little reason to be worried about him.

No one other than Beckman knew when or where she and Chuck were flying out, and no one knew they had come here, to this particular spot in Reno.

She knew that Chuck had been looking for a keepsake for her, something to serve as a reminder of the wonderful days they had spent together in Tahoe. She explained that she traveled light: a memento was an encumbrance to a spy, extra weight and a possible source of intel to enemies.

He was determined. She was sure he was off to find her a memento since none of the touristy stuff in Tahoe had satisfied him. And if she were to tell the whole truth, she wanted a memento of the trip; it had been the best week of her life. She'd happily carry the weight and run the risk. (She had even taken matters into her own hands in a small way back at the cabin.) She hoped Chuck would get her something small, for the inner pocket of her suitcase, to go with the picture she always kept there.

She smiled to herself.

She loved Chuck's enthusiasm. She knew she had become too cynical, too demoralized over the years. She had fallen into inappetence, disrelish. Little had seemed worth caring about except her mission objectives. Everything else had faded to one or another shade of grey.

Chuck colorized her world. She was not looking forward to getting back to work, to going back into the shadows after these days in the sun, but at least she'd be in the shadows with Chuck. And if she didn't get to see him as much, she'd still see him. They'd make time for each other.

He hadn't said anything about what was going on with the Piranha. She was, of course, curious, but she respected his silence. It was just strange to be with Chuck and know he was keeping secrets from her, or at least omitting to tell her things. But she trusted him. He was not doing it just for him. He was doing it for them.

Luckily, both Agent Walker and the Piranha had mostly gotten a rest this week. It had been Sarah and Chuck almost exclusively. And Sarah had told Chuck things this week she had told no one before—sometimes not even herself.

Telling him had been like speaking herself into being. She took on weight and solidity, took on reality, word-by-word, phrase-by-phrase, sentence-by-sentence. She was becoming a real girl; she was no longer her own doppelganger.

They spent the last couple of days in Tahoe alone in the cabin, only emerging to get supplies or to take a walk, to remind their bodies of the possibility of vertical posture. They had talked mostly about Chuck. His parents. His good years with them and the devastation after they both disappeared. He told her hilarious stories about growing up with Morgan. He told her sweetly sad stories about his high school crushes. They had talked a little more about Sarah, but after her Lisa story, she was not yet ready for another plunge. They were becoming, as much as their histories and their situation would allow, a normal couple.

* * *

Sarah wandered along the street, watching people, looking in windows—in the city bustle but not of it.

She knew that Chuck was worried about the future; she knew she wasn't helping much with that. She was still trying to face her past. She hoped he knew—it had been the subtext of much of the week—that she was facing her past to free herself for a future with him. It was happening. It was going to take time.

Neither of them had really talked in any detail about what that future would be. Intersect-free: that was all.

What did that mean? Did that mean that Chuck would walk away from the spy world and expect her to do so too? For all the pain it had caused her and all its dissatisfactions, could she walk away from it into an unknown future? Could she choose the unknown over the known, even if the known were shadows and misery?

 _Are you planning not to hurt him, Sarah?_

 _So, is Agent Walker your cover now?_

As long as she and Chuck were in the spy world, she had home-field advantage. In the real world, almost everyone else did. She would be the visitor, the outsider. He did not understand that she was more vulnerable in his world than he was in hers.

She had told Chuck about painful things. They were painful things that happened to her. She was the victim. She had not started on the stories in which she victimized others—and there were such stories, too many of them. The stories, many of them, contained excuses, too. Exculpations. Reasons. But those were only necessary when what you did looked wrong. So much that she had done looked wrong.

* * *

The red from her Red Test seemed to stain everything after it.

* * *

Her phone vibrated. Chuck. He had sent her an address. It wasn't far. An easy walk. She had to admit, though she generally loathed surprises, she felt warm all over as she walked to Chuck. Eager.

She used her phone to navigate to the address. It was growing dark as she arrived. She saw Chuck standing on the street, his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was standing under a large marquee, flashing neon colors. Chuck himself, caught in the flood of lights, seemed to be changing colors as she looked at him. She only had eyes for him.

He saw her coming and smiled the smile he reserved for her. She felt that smile all over. When she got to him, she stood on her toes and kissed him.

"Where are we, Chuck?" She hadn't read the marquee. Now she was under it and so could not see it.

Chuck hesitated a beat. "We're at _Union Station_."

"Huh?"

She looked around and saw that the building's façade was designed to resemble the famous station in New York City. But it was not a train station. Then she saw the sign on the door.

It was…a wedding chapel. _Union Station, Where Your Journey to Happiness Begins._ Her heart froze. Her eyes went wide. She whirled involuntarily on Chuck. "Chuck?"

He was on one knee. He had a red velvet box open and was holding it between them. In the box was a beautiful diamond ring. Sarah could neither think nor breathe. She just stood there, sinking into the solid concrete of the sidewalk.

"Sarah, I know this is…fast. But I love you. I believe you love me, even though you haven't said the words. I want a future with you and I would like it to start now, today. What we have, I know, always seems complicated—but this week, didn't we find out that it is simple, that it is real, that it is everything?"

A crowd was forming around them.

"If we do this, they can't force us apart. I won't have to keep secrets from you. You could actively help me get _you know what_ out of my head. We wouldn't have to sneak around to be together. Sarah Walker, will you marry me? Give me the life I want with the woman I want? I'm crazy about you."

Sarah stared down into Chuck's eyes. This was not a joke. This was serious. It was not a scene from a play. It was not part of a cover. It was real life.

Marriage? Husband and _wife_? Stop. Pause.

* * *

Chuck was waiting. The crowd that had formed was getting nervous for him. A couple of people yelled out encouragement. Chuck's eyes showed the purity of his heart. He wanted one thing—for her to be happy. He was hoping he would make her happy.

He would make her happy. He did make her happy.

Something inside her gave way. She took the box. A ring. An engagement ring. For Sarah Walker. She opened her mouth: Yes!

But she did not say the word aloud.

The lights of the marquee went red. They bathed her in red. They bathed Chuck in red.

 _Agent Blank_ , _you are a hole in the world_.

Scenes of the week in Tahoe rushed through her mind, a sudden stream, floodwaters. She saw them all in the red light of the marquee.

 _You are a bloody empty spot._

How long had they been there, Chuck kneeling, her standing, both bathed in red?

Forever. A split second.

 _You are a gunshot wound, not a woman. Chuck is bloody. You are getting blood on him, all over him, on everyone._

The crowd was murmuring.

The people were not just embarrassed now for Chuck, but for themselves, for witnessing this scene.

Someone yelled: "Put the poor guy out of his misery, honey. Just shoot him."

"No. No. No, Chuck, I can't. I can't. I can't say 'I love you'. Why would you believe I could say 'Yes' or 'I do'? You expect too much, Chuck. You want too much. You ask for _too much_. I can't give all that you want, I can't give you all of me." She pressed the box back into Chuck's hand.

She turned and ran, blinded by tears, chased by scenes from her past she had kept hidden for years. She was not wounded, but she was bleeding. She bled as she ran, bled as she found the rental car and bled as she drove through dark hours back to Burbank.

* * *

She had been asleep and dreaming since she kissed Chuck.

Since _she_ kissed him.

Snow White kissed the Prince. Then she went to sleep. She finally woke up. She knew she was awake now. She knew because she was alone back in her nightmare life.

* * *

Chuck was on one knee, watching Sarah disappear into the dark.

She was going. She was gone.

The crowd dissipated.

"Sorry, buddy."

"Too bad."

"She was out of his league. What was he thinking?"

Chuck stood up, staring at the ring in his hand.

He gambled.

He lost.

* * *

The older man from the pool witnessed the entire scene.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. He cleared his throat a couple of times before he dialed.

"Hello. Diane? Yes, he did it—but she said no. I don't know where she went, but she ran. No, I watched them off and on all week, Diane. You were right. She loves him. She absolutely loves him. But she's still protecting him, Diane, this time from herself.

"I'll keep watch over him, make sure he finds a way home. Yes, I know, Diane. Remember, I carry a gun. He will be safe.

"You know, Diane, he didn't have to ask. All you did was send the brochures and supply information about agents and marriage. In the end, it was his choice."

* * *

Beckman ended the call. If she had been someone else, she might have cried. She wasn't someone else.

She had hoped that, in this case, her duty and her inclinations were taking the same path and that, in this case, the course of true love might run smooth.

Damn it.

Roan. She was glad he was there. Bartowski was going to be a wreck. Beckman had wrecked him. She knew she had overstepped her boundaries; she shouldn't have meddled in his life and Agent Walker's life this way.

But Graham was planning to meddle in ways that were not aimed at making them happy. She huffed at that understatement. She had aimed at making them happy, although it now looked like she had only secured their unhappiness.

Resisting Graham was now going to be much harder. Her key squad in the approaching war had been split up. She wasn't sure anyone could get them back together. This battle went to Graham, even though he knew nothing about it, even though he presumably had no idea it had been fought. But wars were long—and she was a soldier. She would foxhole herself and keep fighting.

She hated herself for having the thought, but she had it. _How would this affect the Intersect?_ Sarah needed to stay on the team. The Intersect wouldn't work well without her.

Damn it.

* * *

Chuck's suitcase and plane ticket had been in the car. Sarah had taken it. Chuck got a cab to the airport. Sarah was not there. After some explaining and after paying a fee, Chuck got a ticket for the flight. He boarded, found his seat. He stared numbly at the _Fasten Seat Belt_ light. He kept staring at it like a traitor long after the bell sounded and the light went off.

Casey was waiting for him when he got off the plane.

* * *

AN2 Hate to send you into your weekend like this, gentle readers. I really do. (No evil laughter here, just a sigh.) I don't care for angst much and I don't like cliffhangers. But this is how I understood the story from the beginning and the story seemed worth telling. And, given the rhythm of installments, this installment needed to end here.

One of the deep frustrations of writing Chuck fanfiction is that it is impossible to use music in the way it was used in the show, and it mattered so much to the show. (And it matters so much to me.) I suggested a two-song soundtrack to this installment in the opening lines. REM has been playing in my head throughout most of this story.

This installment is a twisty homage to the madcap and moving marriage in Vegas in Marc Vun Kannon's Nine2Five. Thanks for that story, Marc.


	15. Chapter 14: A Death in the Desert?

A/N What a mess. Unlucky Chapter 13. On to 14. Thanks for reading, reviewing and PMing.

Don't Own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 14 A Death in the Desert?

* * *

 _I sing quietly to the immediate heart_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 56_

* * *

Casey peered hard at Chuck as he walked toward him. Chuck was too upset to look away. He stopped in front of Casey.

"So—Walker's not with you?"

"She's not with me."

"What did you do, numbnuts?"

"Something stupid. You are right, Casey, I'm a moron. I am painfully aware of that right now, so will you just let me remind myself, and not remind me too? I promise: I will do a good job of reminding myself."

Casey grunted. It might have meant yes or no. Chuck hung his head.

"So—no luggage? Giving the baggage handlers the night off, huh?"

Chuck shot Casey a look so full of hurt that even Casey blinked and felt chastised and had to turn away.

"C'mon, Chuck."

Chuck trudged along slightly behind Casey until they got out of the terminal and to the Crown Vic in the parking garage. Casey unlocked Chuck's door and he got inside. Casey got in and started the engine. "Where to?"

"Home. Ellie."

Casey had never really reckoned Bartowski was a loser—at least not since Bartowski defused a bomb that first night they knew each other. He did not reckon Bartowski was a loser now. The kid was lost, though, well and truly _lost_. He was a dead man walking. Walker was one of the kid's vital organs, and she was gone. You could almost see through the hole in Chuck.

Casey dropped Chuck at home. Casey got out of his car and watched Chuck until the front door of the apartment opened. Ellie stood there in a robe. She looked at Chuck and almost instantly swept him into her arms.

"That's one lucky unlucky kid." With that, Casey walked into the courtyard and to his own apartment.

* * *

"Chuck, my God. What happened?"

Ellie had seen Chuck shortly after Jill Roberts dumped him. He had looked _so much better_ then. Chuck slipped past her and went to the couch. He sat down. Ellie sat down beside him.

"Spill. Weren't you in Tahoe with Sarah?" Chuck said nothing. "Where is she? Where is Sarah?"

"Not here."

"Chuck! Talk to me."

"I asked Sarah to marry me. In Reno. Before we were supposed to fly back home."

"Wait. What did you just say? You. Asked. Sarah. To. Marry. You? Did I hear that right? "

"Yes."

"And how long have you two been a couple?"

"I don't know anymore, Ellie, and that's part of the trouble. Sarah says we've been together since she came. That's how I feel. That's not a long time, but it's been a while, months."

"But weren't you just pretending to date then?"

"We weren't _just_ pretending…"

"So you were pretending?"

"Yes. No. Hell, Ellie, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore, except that I have to stay away from her. I can't do this anymore. I can't be so close to everything that I want that I actually have it in my hands, only to have it taken from me again. Jill ruined five years of my life. Given how I feel about Sarah, she is capable of ruining the rest of it. I can't do it. I can't pine away permanently. I have to stay away from her." Chuck's voice and hands were shaking.

"Calm down, Chuck. Breathe. What were you thinking, Chuck? No. No. Wait. I am sorry. Don't answer that. Just start at the beginning and tell me the story."

Chuck did. He talked.

"...So, I started thinking about marrying her. I got more excited about it as she kept talking to me, the more we were together. We were making progress; I didn't imagine that, it was real. I was finally getting to know the woman I love. I remembered then that I had seen a late-night show on Nevada weddings. You can marry in Reno much as you can in Las Vegas." Ellie made a face.

"I know, El, I know. I asked Sarah to marry me in the Divorce Capital of the World. Maybe someday that will even seem funny to me. Probably not.

"Anyway, I probably would have just daydreamed about it, if not for Beckman."

" _General_ Beckman? What do you mean?"

"I was sent on a drop. Well, not a real drop, although I was not supposed to know that. Sarah told me, though."

"Told you what?"

"That it was not a real drop."

"So it wasn't a real drop?"

"No, it was. Just not the real drop it was not supposed not to be." Chuck was beginning a deep spiral.

Ellie shook her head violently. "Chuck, you aren't making any sense. Stop. So you went on a drop. What was dropped?"

"A package from Beckman."

"Wait. Beckman sent you a package on a drop that was not a drop but that…Oh, hell, I give up. What was in the package?"

"Brochures about a marriage chapel in Reno. _Union Station_."

"You are kidding me. I guess _Conjunction Junction_ was already taken?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. What is a general doing moonlighting as Cupid? Is that all?"

'No, there were copies of a couple of pages from CIA memos about the rights of agents and spouses. Long story short, if Sarah was my wife, the CIA, the government, really, legally could not separate us. It would make things very tricky for them, for certain sorts of plans they might have regarding me, and her."

"So you asked Sarah to marry you to keep you out of a bunker—or so she could keep you company in one?"

Chuck dropped his head in his hands. He rubbed tears from his eyes. "No, I mean, yes. Not really. That was part of it but not the important part. I want to spend my life with her.

"Our week was so wonderful. I didn't want to have to come back here and pretend not to be in love with her most of the time. To have to find stolen moments to be together. I am so sick of pretending, Ellie. I am so sick of spies.

"I didn't know Beckman was on our side when I first started thinking about us getting married. But Graham is not on our side. If he knew we had even thought about getting married, he'd have me gone or have Sarah gone in an instant."

"How can you know Beckman is on your side? She was going to put you in a bunker, Chuck!"

"I don't think so, Ellie. I thought about that when she sent me the brochures. She must have known—when she gave the order to bunker me if things didn't work out—that Sarah and I had real feelings for each other. She gave Sarah the orders she did because she knew Sarah would keep it from happening, and keep me safe. She was very careful to make sure that Sarah knew not to let me out of her sight. She must have expected Sarah to tell me she gave that order. I don't think Beckman thinks I am an idiot after all. I think she expected me to work this out.

"Just before we went to Tahoe, Sarah noticed that Beckman and Graham are not on the same page. I am now convinced there's some kind of power struggle going on over the Intersect, over me. I think Beckman is worried about me and worried about us. I thought Fulcrum was the only worry…

"Why did she tell you to spring this proposal on Sarah?"

Chuck lost the steam he built during his explanation. He fell back on the couch.

"She didn't, Ellie. That was all me. I wasn't crazy about getting married like that. In Reno. You know I would want you and Devon and Morgan with me if I could. But I worried that if we left Reno unmarried, we might never get a chance again. I do think Beckman was worried about that too. Back here, we are in Graham's grip. Anyway, I thought…I hoped…maybe it would all seem more…romantic…if I made a big gesture. I thought if she turned me down she would just turn me down. I didn't know I would do…whatever I did to her…."

"I asked her to marry me because I love her, Ellie. Maybe it was a bad time, the wrong place. But that can't be a bad reason for asking."

Ellie was now fighting back tears of her own. "No, little brother, that's not a bad reason for asking. It is the reason to ask. But it does not guarantee the answer you want to hear. Look, go to bed. You are dead on your feet. We will think about all this again tomorrow. Come by the hospital. I've got Intersect stuff we need to talk about, but it can wait until then."

* * *

Bryce Larkin got off a plane an hour or so after Chuck did.

As he crossed the terminal, he was rolling a small, expensive suitcase behind him. He was dressed in a tailored grey suit. A week of walks around DC had made his use of his cane more natural. A number of women stopped what they were doing to watch him cross the terminal.

He was waiting in line for a taxi. He was excited to get to his new apartment building. Graham had done what Bryce suggested. He got Bryce an apartment in Sarah's building. He got Bryce the apartment next to hers, in fact. Snug. Very snug. If only the apartments were adjoining...

Bryce had a blue scarf wrapped in his suitcase. He had a bottle of blue pills. He liked his chances. Sarah had been alone for a long time. He could already taste his welcome.

A young woman in a USC sweatshirt walked up to Bryce. A friend of hers in a UCLA sweatshirt was a step or two behind her. The USC student smiled brightly at Bryce. Her parents had clearly invested a fortune in her smile. It was amazing. Bryce smiled back.

"Ah, do you think you could take a picture of me and my friend? We want to send one to other friends back east. It's no big deal, but if you have a minute?"

Bryce put out his hand and took the phone. The two girls hugged each other and put on giant artificial smiles. Bryce aimed the phone. He pressed the button to take the photo, and the screen burst into life, flashing pictures at great speed. It was over in a few seconds.

The UCLA student bounded up to Bryce and grabbed the camera. Bryce stood in place, blinking, his eyes out of focus. The students walked quickly away. After a moment, Bryce's eyes refocused. He turned back to find a taxi waiting. He rolled his bag to the driver, who had gotten out and opened the trunk of the cab. Bryce slipped into the backseat and gave the driver the address.

* * *

The two young women went back into the terminal. They found a dark-haired woman in glasses staring at her own reflection in one of the windows of the terminal.

"It's done," the USC girl said. The dark-haired woman nodded and handed her a thick envelope.

"Good. Have a nice night."

The two young women walked away. Their stride and comportment had changed. Now only their sweatshirts suggested they were students.

"Always good to use professionals. More expensive up front, cheaper in the long run." Jill Roberts pressed a button on her phone. The two women would never make it out of the parking garage alive with Fulcrum's money. She'd leave them the sweatshirts, though, as parting gifts. She joined the line of people waiting for a taxi.

The pieces were in place. Fulcrum would have a fully functioning Intersect soon.

* * *

Graham woke up and shook the bottle of aspirin beside his bed. Empty.

He had been going through pills like a kid through Halloween candy. His head would not stop hurting.

He got up and grabbed another bottle from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Before his wife had left him, she'd taken care of things like buying aspirin, and she had the good sense to buy clear bottles so you could see how many you had left.

He, on the other hand, bought the opaque white bottles, because…well, because he wasn't her and because he did not function well without her.

Her side of the bed, empty now as it had been for months, was physically painful to look at. His head throbbed when he did, so he turned away. He dumped aspirin into his hand, a fistful, threw them in his mouth and choked them down with water. Maybe they would help a little. These days, nothing made the pain go away.

* * *

Chuck finally fell asleep. He couldn't replay the scene from Reno in his mind again. What had Sarah seen when she looked at him that caused her expression of horror? Why couldn't she just have said no? Why did she run away? Had his mistake been that bad, his timing that far gone? Love was tearing him apart. Again. Worse than ever before.

At some point in the night, hours later, but before dawn, Chuck heard his window swing open. He heard feet on the carpet. He knew someone was standing over him. If it was someone who had come to hurt him, Chuck was in trouble. He really didn't care. _Kill me and it won't hurt anymore_. He had jammed Casey's bugs before he went to bed. He didn't want Casey to watch him, to see how ruined he was. So, if he was going to die, at least there'd be no video or audio of it. He waited.

Someone stood over him for a few minutes. He heard the window close. When he finally rolled over, no one was there. But for a few minutes afterward, his room seemed to smell faintly of Sarah. He fell back asleep. In the morning, he had no idea if it had been a dream or reality.

* * *

Sarah slipped out of Chuck's room. She didn't care if Casey saw her or not. She had to know Chuck had gotten home. She had to know he was safe. She had to see him with her own eyes.

She had left him kneeling on a sidewalk in Reno.

She had driven to Burbank and then driven to the beach. She went out and, in the moonlight, stood approximately in the spot where she sat with Chuck the morning after their first date. She had asked him to trust her. "Trust me, Chuck."

He did. He trusted her with everything he had. He had never stopped, not even after all the ways she treated him—hot and cold, gentle and harsh, toward and fromward. He had offered it all to her, not just his trust, but everything, only hours ago. She had refused it and ran.

She had been living on that trust from the time she asked him to trust her. She knew that now, as she faced the prospect of living without it.

She had no more tears left. She'd shed them on the road. She had no tears, but her stomach suddenly went queasy. She flopped onto her hands and knees and she was sick.

She was as miserable as she had ever been. She knew she could not talk to Chuck yet. She wasn't sure when—she wasn't even sure if—that would happen. Maybe she should call Graham and Beckman and request reassignment? Could she really protect a man she was terrified to face? How could she stand to see what she had done to him?

But even as she asked these questions, she found herself back in the car, and then at Chuck's window, and then beside his bed. So softly even she could not hear her own voice, she said, "I love you, Chuck." She stood for a moment, her body screaming for her to put herself where she belonged, next to him in the bed.

She refused. She left.

* * *

She could not face her apartment. She drove back to the beach once more. She felt better there, despite getting sick earlier. She walked back out on the sand to wait for the sun.

 _Trust me, Chuck._

 _Marry me, Sarah._

She had asked that of a sensitive, bewildered, quirkily heroic man whose life had been stolen from him. He had no reason to trust; he had every reason to mistrust. He'd mustered a smile and he had trusted.

He had asked that of a woman who had wanted to share his life, his family, and his bed while not sharing herself. She had excuses. Exculpations. Reasons. They weren't valid. The week in Tahoe rushed through her mind again, this time uncolored by a marquee.

It had been the best week of her life. And she ended it by making the worst mistake of her life. She had not said no because it was too early—and maybe it was, but they had never been a normal couple—she had said no because she could not stay there and face herself.

She had run for the same reasons she had not told Chuck she loved him, although the words were had tickled her tongue all week long. She had told herself when she drove away from Reno that she was just doing her job. That was true—and it was also profoundly false. She couldn't tell Chuck she loved him, she couldn't accept his proposal, because she refused to acknowledge herself, to own her own past. That had been her way of doing her job. That had been her reason for doing her job, why she kept doing it.

Her covers had fooled others, but they were, most importantly, ways of fooling herself. She kept becoming imaginary people with imaginary pasts so that she would not have to be this one actual woman with her one actual past. She had been on the run all these years, running from herself. All those imaginary people with imaginary pasts—Jenny Burton and all her succeeding cover sisters—were part of one actual person's one actual past. And that, she now knew, was an inescapable fact. The person she was running from was always the person on the run.

She thought Chuck did not know her. He knew her better than she knew herself. He looked at her and saw her, a woman who used covers but who was not herself a cover, a woman with a troubled past who was more than just the sum of that past.

Something had given way inside her in Reno. Her past came back to her as hers, episodic, raw, visceral, sometimes awful. The scenes were things she had done, not just things she knew _had been done_ , done by Jenny Burton or one of her other covers. She had treated those memories as if they belonged to the imaginary person she was at the time, as if the memories were, somehow, imaginary, abstract, most importantly, _someone else's._

Sarah got up and ran back to the rental. (She was going to have to get someone at the CIA or NSA to straighten out the return of that thing.) She opened the back and grabbed her suitcase. She quickly unzipped it and pushed it open. Inside, Sarah had tucked away a stack of stationary and envelopes with the letterhead of the Tahoe cabin's rental company. As she grabbed them, she simultaneously blushed and teared up. She had not been sure Chuck would find a keepsake, and she worried that her telling him she did not need one might have actually dissuaded him, so she had grabbed the stationary as she packed, just in case. She closed the suitcase and the back of the SUV. She went to the driver's side and opened the door. In her purse, she found a pen.

She went back to where she had been sitting on the sand. The sun was coming up at last. She began to write.

 _Chuck,_

 _The agent I am—let's call her Sarah Walker for now—came to life on a street in Paris. I was being given my Red Test…_

She wrote it all out. The details. Her self-loathing. The unnumbered days of numbness. The repeated, lengthy showers.

She ended the story. She wanted to write "I love you", but she knew that had to wait. There were more letters to write. She hoped he would read them. She would write them no matter what.

She ended the letter like this.

 _Trust me, Chuck. I'm sorry._

She would tell him her stories. Write them down and give them to him. Maybe she could find a way to earn his trust again.

* * *

Sarah and her father had been forced to spend a night in a small town on the coast of Mississippi. A hurricane was coming. They spent the night in a cheap hotel listening to the freight-training wind and the falling curtains of rain.

The next morning, they left the dark motel room—the power had gone out during the storm—and walked the streets of the small town. Trees were down everywhere, on houses, on cars, across roads. Telephone poles had been snapped. Windows were shattered. Bits of an awning and other debris were blowing across the ground. Water stood in pools and puddles.

There was a deep, pervasive sense of quiet. The storm had come. The storm had gone. It had done serious damage. It would take the town a while to recover if it did, if the townsfolk cared enough to rebuild.


	16. Chapter 15: Barely Breathing

A/N Spy clouds gather. Other stuff happens too. Thanks to all who are reading, reviewing and PMing. Talking with you folks about Chuck and Sarah, about words like 'leaven', about writing, and about other tidbits and topics has been fun and instructive.

Warning: I have stayed pretty close to a linear timeline so far, but that may loosen up some in upcoming installments. _I've got oars in many waters_... _I_ _'m a roving spaniel chasing after every bird_...well, and you know, other suchlike (near) quotations (from obscure works of literature) that might serve as an explanation.

Don't Own Chuck. Don't know much about history. Don't know much biology... Mainly just learning to play new songs on the guitar and scribbling away.

* * *

CHAPTER 15 Barely Breathing

* * *

 _I am tormented by poetry and loss._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 12_

* * *

Chuck was awake but his heart hurt. He wondered if Sarah had been in his room last night. Maybe. He thought he smelled her, that vanilla-grapefruit wonderful smell. Remembering the smell made his heart hurt worse. He was tempted to just stay in bed. He was tempted to call Morgan and have him make a cheeseball run. Chuck could sit in the dark and eat cheeseballs. It didn't just sound like a plan for the day; it sounded like a plan for a life.

A five-year plan…maybe longer…

And Chuck was up. Ellie had Intersect stuff to tell him. Chuck Bartowski could fall apart, play Richard Buckner's _Devotion and Doubt_ , and color his fingers orange with artificial cheese. The Piranha, however, had things to do. It hurt his heart to stand up, to dress, to put on his Chuck's. But a few minutes later he was Nerd Herded up. He realized he was panting. His heart hurt so bad he could not take deep breaths. Sarah had taken his breath away.

Sarah. What was that bit of Byron that had stuck in his head back at college? He had thought of it last night when he first went to bed.

 _I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;  
There is grief in the sound..._

He would go see Ellie in the mid-afternoon. He needed to take a walk, play a video game. He needed to do something other than think about S... _her_.

* * *

Ellie was working through lunch. She knew Chuck would be by in a couple of hours. She wanted to have time for him. She had things to tell him. But right now the priority wasn't the glitch in his brain; it was the hole in his heart. _Damn the Intersect. Damn Beckman. And damn Sarah_ …

* * *

"Ellie?"

It was Sarah. Or Ellie thought it was.

The woman standing before her was not the tastefully dressed and carefully put together Sarah Walker she knew. This woman was in a badly wrinkled blouse. There was a stain on it, a record of nausea. Her eyes were sunk in dark circles. She was wearing red eyeliner—she had been crying. A lot. Her jeans were covered in sand. Her tennis shoes were on her feet, but the laces were loose and untied.

"Sarah?" Ellie asked to be sure.

"Yes, it's me, Ellie."

Ellie looked past Sarah into the hall. "Are you expecting someone, Ellie?"

"Yeah," Ellie answered in an absent tone, "the third ghost...since I am clearly trapped in some Carol or other." Ellie focused her attention back on Sarah. "You look as bad as Chuck did last night. Can I help you, Sarah?" Ellie had intended her tone to be hostile but seeing Sarah emptied it of hostility. God, those two were a pair. They were either going to be the death of each other or live happily ever after: there just were no other options.

"Do you know about…what happened?" Sarah stepped haltingly toward Ellie. Ellie caught a whiff of something sour. _Ok, right about the stain._ Sarah held out an envelope as Ellie answered.

"More or less."

"Please, Ellie, keep this for me and give it to Chuck."

Ellie took the envelope with about as much eagerness as she would a scorpion. She looked the letter and noticed the name on the front and the cabin rental logo in the upper, right-hand corner.

"I see this isn't addressed to _John_. It isn't for _John_ , is it, Sarah? Because if it is, there is no way in hell I am your courier. A letter to John on that stationary, Sarah, …well, Chuck's barely breathing as it is. That would kill him. And it would officially and forever make you a _bitch_." Ellie hit the last word hard and it bounced around in the lab.

Sarah looked at Ellie blankly. Finally, she understood. She dropped her head. "I deserve that. No, it's not that kind of letter. It's…something else. Something…I hope…Chuck will understand."

"Sarah, I know my brother. I know he…jumped the gun." Ellie noticed Sarah wince at the phrase, "but he asked you for the right reasons, even if his choice of time and place was wrong."

"It wasn't Chuck, it was me, " Sarah began. Ellie cut her off abruptly. "Anything you go on to say you should say to Chuck before you say it to me or anyone else." Ellie thought for a moment about just telling Sarah that she knew that Sarah was a spy, that she knew about the weird cover relationship—just to get it all out in the open. Ellie had been part of this only a few weeks, but like her brother, she was tired of spies. But she wouldn't make that decision for Chuck any more than she would be an audience to an explanation Sarah owed to Chuck before anyone else.

"I can't face talking to him about this, yet, Ellie. I need time."

"How much time is he supposed to give you, Sarah? His life—and yours too—is running way while you try to…decide…whatever it is you keep trying to decide.

Before Sarah could respond, Ellie pushed on, the hostility she had not managed earlier now fully present in her tone. "Do you trust my brother, Sarah? Well, do you?"

Sarah's eyes filled with hurt. "Ellie, how can you ask me that? I trust him more than anyone else I have ever known."

"Well, if that is so, Sarah, then I have to say you must not have known many trustworthy people. Because what you are calling _trusting my brother_ looks to me like a constant dithering between trusting him a little and not trusting him at all."

"Ellie," Sarah's voice was not hostile, just weary and sad and sore, "I trust Chuck."

"I know you believe that you do, Sarah. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that if you trusted my brother you should be married to him right now. That's between the two of you. I'm saying that if you trusted him...and loved him, he would not have come back to Burbank _alone_."

"I'm sorry, Ellie. I screwed up. I am screwed up. I have no idea how to be someone's girlfriend."

"Then, Sarah, damn it, _figure it out_. You are one of the smartest women I know. You seem capable of anything. It is time to stop this _Doctor Jekyll—Miss Hide_ routine."

Sarah looked at her hands. They were stained with ink and with dirt. She knew she needed a shower. She could smell herself, the trace of vomit. But she stood and let Ellie finish. She needed to hear what Ellie had to say.

"Figure it out. You keep trying to decide _for Chuck_ whether or not you are his girlfriend or whether or not you deserve to be his girlfriend. You keep acting like you can't trust his decision to choose you. He has chosen you, Sarah. Is there anything clearer than that he _has_ chosen you? Stop second-guessing his choice and _be_ his choice. How can you love him and not respect his choice of loves?"

Sarah held her breath as Ellie finished.

"Ok, Ellie. Ok. Just please give that to Chuck and ask him if he will accept any more of the same from me."

Sarah's phone vibrated. She had a text message from Graham.

 _Mandatory evening meeting in Castle at 7pm_.

"I have to go, Ellie. I start work today at the Orange Orange and I need to clean up and get some sleep."

Ellie watched her leave. She wondered if there would ever be a time when she could just believe what Sarah said.

* * *

Beckman was in a grip-like vise. Graham. She had just come from a meeting with the small, secret congressional committee that oversaw the Intersect project. As she had expected, Graham had been working behind the scenes to influence key members of the committee. At the meeting, they had announced that although the NSA would remain part of the team—neither Beckman nor Casey was going anywhere—the CIA was now in operational control of the Intersect project, of Team Bartowski, as they termed it informally, during their meetings.

Graham had cunningly not overplayed his hand. He hadn't tried to push her out or to argue that she was not up to the job. He'd instead insisted that the CIA had the longest history with the Intersect, and underlined that it was the CIA that was building the new Intersect. These arguments really should not have carried the day, but she was sure Graham had added…inducements behind the scenes. Senators, congressmen…grafters in suits, cons playing the country for suckers. Oh, well.

She had expected this. Not everyone on the committee had a handout or a hand in something. Not everyone was open to Graham's influence. They had made sure that she remained where she was. They also represented a check on Graham. The votes on the committee were close enough for anything unwise to swing the balance of power back to Beckman.

She brought Casey in on the situation at the end of his week in DC. He was her eyes and ears in Burbank. Roan, luckily, actually lived nearby, so she could use him if she needed him. He seemed quite taken with Bartowski and Walker. He was rooting for them. She allowed herself a smile that she normally reserved for him, and normally only for more…compromised…moments.

Roan and Bartowski, she'd recently realized, were quite a bit alike. They were certainly both helpless romantics. Roan tended to spread his romantic side around, and despite her deep feeling for him, Beckman tolerated that, just as Roan tolerated her marriage to her job. They probably could have been happily monogamous together—but that had not been in the cards they were dealt. They each had settled for being the others oldest and dearest mistress—although she knew Roan would groan at her if she put it that way in his hearing: probably outraged more by the 'oldest' than the 'mistress'. She smiled that smile again.

At least Walker had not run from her job. She was still in Burbank and Casey expected she would be at the meeting later. As far as Beckman knew, Walker still did not know that Beckman had been involved in Reno, and Walker still thought Beckman was serious about putting Chuck in a bunker.

At least Beckman had been able to make clear to Casey that her order to him had been one she had hoped he would never act on. Casey had shared his thoughts on that order—and her strategy—with her. Not the most pleasant six minutes of the last week, she would admit.

Walker needed to know what was going on. Beckman would call her later. She owed Walker a long conversation. An apology. She grimaced. She hated to apologize. She had to. She had overstepped. Walker was going to be key to taking down Graham. Graham might be a bit nervous about whether he lately had complete control over his enforcer. But he was blithely confident she would never turn against him. Beckman was sure that she would, and that it was already happening. Graham's idiotic entertainment order got it started.

Beckman grabbed one of the tumblers off her desk and very carefully poured a little whiskey into it. Not too much: she was due to have drinks with Rose later that night, after the video conference with the Team.

Beckman was now fighting a two-front war, Graham on one flank and Fulcrum on the other, and she had one arm tied behind her back. She smiled grimly, bearing her teeth. Good. That just made it fair.

* * *

Sarah got to her apartment. She was rolling her suitcase and Chuck's. She had thought just to take Chuck's to Castle, but then she thought that she did not want to give it up. If nothing else, it might be a way of getting him to come to her. If she could screw up the courage to face him, that is. She put both suitcases on the bed, and opened Chuck's. She grabbed one of his old Stanford t-shirts. It still smelled exactly like him. She held it to her face and for a moment let herself believe she was back in Tahoe.

She put his shirt down on the bed, then grabbed clean underwear and stacked it on top of the shirt. She had enough time for a nap before the meeting. She needed sleep but first she needed a shower.

She began to cry almost as soon as the warm water touched her. She had been empty of tears last night and even this morning. No longer. She wept for Chuck, she wept for herself, for herself now, for herself all those years in the CIA, for herself as a little girl. Thankfully, the crying ended after a little while, and she felt better for it. She got out of the shower and dried off. She put on Chuck's shirt over her underwear pushed Chuck's suitcase over to the other side of the bed, and turned down the comforter to get some sleep.

There was a knock at the door. Chuck? She was frozen between running to the door and hiding in her room. But if he had made the effort to come to her, how could she hide from him? What had Ellie called her: Doctor Jekyll—Miss Hide? She went to the door. Her heart felt like it would implode. She opened the door.

Casey.

"Hey, Walker. How are you?"

"Uh, John…uh, Casey, I am fine." Casey shot her a look. "Come in." Sarah walked into the bathroom and grabbed her robe and put it on. Casey kept his gaze focused out her window until she tied it. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No. No, Walker, I'm fine. I wanted to see how you are. I picked Bartowski up at the airport last night…"

"Oh."

"Yeah. He wasn't…good. He didn't tell me anything, really. I just wanted to see if you were ok. I…well…I saw you arrive at Bartowski's last night and leave a few minutes later. The light never came on. I assume he did not know you were there?" Casey was looking at Chuck's open suitcase as he asked. There was nothing Sarah could do about that. Casey would have to make of it whatever he did.

"I wanted to know he was ok. I wanted to know he got back safely. If you need to report me, Casey, I will understand. Maybe the best thing would be for me to get out of Burbank."

"I don't need to report anything, Walker. I shut down my surveillance a few minutes after Bartowski got home. A man has a right to his own misery."

Sarah blanched. Casey hadn't intended that as a shot, though. "Sorry, Walker. I was talking about effects, not causes."

"That hardly makes it better, " Sarah said, tightly. "But I deserve it, intended or not...So, John, I take it you know and probably knew, that Chuck and I were together?"

"I didn't _know_ strictly speaking. I didn't know until a couple of days ago. Here's the thing, Walker. I don't care. I'm proud of this team and the work we have done. We've done it while you and Bartowski made eyes at each other—and made other things. The team was just as good with you two together as it was with you apart. Better, actually. What now, Walker? Are you two no longer a couple? What does that do to the team?"

"I don't know if we are a couple anymore or not. I still take myself to be Chuck's girlfriend." Walker couldn't help but smile at Casey's face when she used that term. She couldn't maintain the smile for long, though. "But that doesn't mean anything if he does not still take himself to be my…" Casey cut her off.

"Right. Right. Got it. Please don't say those words to me again anytime soon. A question, Walker, and I will let you go. When Chuck showed up with no luggage, I made a crack about him giving the baggage handlers the night off. He looked at me like I had stepped on his kitten. Does that mean anything to you?"

Sarah had a hard time forcing words from her throat. It had closed. "Yes, that means something to me."

"Ok, because I didn't mean anything by it. I just couldn't figure it out. I was sorry for it, whatever I did. By the way, I think Beckman will call you tonight after the meeting in Castle."

Casey left. Sarah got in the bed. She sat for a minute and stared at Chuck's suitcase. Then she laid down, hugging her shirt, and fell asleep.

* * *

Casey was walking around, marveling at Castle. It was the first time any of them had seen it. Sarah was seated at the central conference table. She felt skittish and kept stealing glances to the stairway. She had butterflies. Chuck had not arrived.

A moment later, he was coming down the stairs. Sarah was simultaneously terrified and relieved. She couldn't lift her head. She stared at her lap.

Chuck sat on the far end of the table. Sarah felt, rather than saw, that he did not look at her. She could not remember a time he had not looked at her before anything else in any room she was in. Casey sat down, roughly in between them. It was time for the conference.

Sarah heard a sound, a step, and a tap. She looked up. Bryce Larkin was standing at her end of the table, leaning against his cane. He was giving her his very best smile. She was surprised to see him. He did not look like Bryce exactly, not as she had known him before, but he looked more like that Bryce than when she last saw him. She was happy for him. She smiled thinly back at him. She then felt Chuck's eyes on her. She glanced at him sidelong. He was watching her and Bryce. His chin dropped to his chest.

Sarah had a strange, irresistible thought: _Bryce is_ _Ellie's third ghost!_

Chuck seemed little interested in Bryce's sudden appearance. Casey looked at Bryce like he was looking at him down a barrel. If Bryce had expected a rush of excitement at his appearance, he did not get it.

Graham and Beckman were on the monitor, seated side by side.

"Team Bartowski, this is your new team leader, a man you all…know. Agent Bryce Larkin. He will not be going into the field. He will instead be overseeing the fieldwork and coordinating your efforts against Fulcrum with efforts of other agents worldwide. No one knows Fulcrum like Larkin does."

"So why not just call this Team Larkin?"

Chuck had said that, his voice carrying a load of acid that made Graham scowl immediately and caused Larkin to look hard at Chuck.

"Does the asset have something to say?" Graham said, contemptuously. Sarah forgot her fear of making eye contact with Chuck. Her head was up and she was staring at him. For a moment, she thought Chuck was going to continue in the same tone. She tried to warn him with her eyes but he was resolutely not looking at her.

Chuck held Graham gaze for a split second. Then he sat back with a half-audible sigh. Sarah turned back to the screen. "Larkin will be representing us to you and will be representing you to us. We will not be having meetings like this as frequently. We will be meeting with Larkin off and on the next couple of days. You may come and go in Castle as you please. Make yourself familiar with it. It is a state of the art facility, despite being small. We have spared no expense. You work has been noted in Washington. Ending the threat from Fulcrum is our first priority. The team will take up non-Fulcrum missions only if they are urgent." Graham paused for a moment to rub his temples. "I expect you to acknowledge Larkin's authority and cooperate with him." Graham took a moment to look hard at Chuck. "Agent Larkin, the team is _yours_." The monitor went black, although Sarah thought she saw Beckman steal a glance at her as it went off.

Bryce looked around the room, starting and ending with Sarah. "That is all. I will contact you if I need you. Maybe I will see you around Castle the next couple of days. Sarah, can you stay for a few minutes. I'd like to talk to you."

Sarah nodded. She took another sidelong glance at Chuck. He looked slightly green, like he might be sick. She still could not bear to meet his eyes.

Casey and Chuck left. Chuck glanced back over his shoulder, his face so complicated with emotion that Sarah could not decipher it.

* * *

"So, Sarah," Bryce moved right beside her chair, "I was hoping we might have a late dinner, get reacquainted. I never really saw you when I was here last." He grinned.

"I saw you, Bryce. But you weren't in any condition to remember. I am glad to see you doing so much better."

"So, dinner?"

"No, Bryce. I'm glad you are back. But we will not be having dinner—or any other meal unless the job requires it. I hope we can be friends, but we will never again be anything more."

"But, Sarah, it's…been so long. I'm sure you've gotten anxious, stuck here, babysitting Chuck. You must be dying for some…excitement. An adult evening."

"Bryce. No. Let me be perfectly clear. We were done when I buried you…before that, really, I just didn't understand it." She added the last in a quieter voice.

Bryce leaned down quickly and kissed her.

The misery of the past twenty-four hours was kindling for her anger. Her hands moved like a blur, and Bryce found himself bent over the table, held by his hair, with the tip Sarah's knife inside of one of his nostrils.

"Bryce, given how much you think of your looks, I doubt you would like what I could do to your nose. Now, let me say all this again. I am glad you are well. I'm willing to work with you, cooperate with you. I'm willing to be friendly, for the sake of what we had once, such as it was. But we will never be a couple again. If you keep this up, I will hurt you physically, or I will tell Beckman you are sexually harassing me, or, more likely, both. Is that clear."

Bryce's eyes crossed as he tried to see what she was doing with her knife. He nodded. He was holding his breath. Sarah backed away. She climbed the stairs, knife still in hand.

Bryce unbent and huffed. He straightened his shirt. He knew Sarah. She was not kidding. To be honest, he'd always been more than a little afraid of her. He had seen her in action.

Suddenly he wished his apartment were much farther from hers. Say, in a different building. Say, on a different block.


	17. Chapter 16: Tiger and Crocodile

A/N As warned, the timeline is going to get more complicated for a little while. I intend it to be easy enough to follow, but I am not going to use dates, days or times, just internal markers. Thanks to all for sticking with the story and for so kindly sharing your thoughts about it.

Don't own Chuck. I do own a Gibson J-50. It is very cool.

(Anyone else out there a fan of Richard Buckner's _Devotion and Doubt_ (mentioned in Chapter 15)? Greatest break-up album ever. Heart-rending.)

Pace may slow this week, I am not sure. I have final papers to read and grade.

* * *

CHAPTER 16 Tiger and Crocodile

* * *

 _All very fine, but his wall is full of cracks._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 62_

* * *

Ellie was standing in the lab, chewing on her bottom lip, staring at Sarah's letter to Chuck.

Chuck came into the lab.

He looked closer to a live human being than he had last night. Closer—but there was still a distance for him to travel to get there, a couple of days' journey.

She wondered, as she had many times in her life, what it would have been like just to be Chuck's sister, and not also his mother. To have been able just to be annoyed by his antics instead of also finding them endearing, to have just enjoyed his company without the constant undercurrent of responsibility. She'd never know.

That was ok. Sister, mother—she loved Chuck.

She could tell from looking at him that he was trying to keep himself distracted. He was trying not to think about Sarah. But, Ellie's practiced eyes could see that name written like newsprint all over his face.

 _I'm so sorry about all of this, little brother. Why couldn't they have left you alone at Stanford? Why couldn't you have become the wealthy software designer and boat racer, or whatever you call it, you planned to be?_ Ellie chuckled unhappily to herself _. Why couldn't you have married an attractive, steady girl who admired you and laughed at your jokes, and who wanted the kids I know you want? Why is your life so full of spies, lousy with them? It's like some weird family curse, like we're lycanthropes._

"Hi, El. You wanted to talk Intersect?"

"Yeah, Chuck. First thing: Dad had established contact with me. I haven't talked to him since early last week. But we are now comparing Intersect notes."

"How, El?"

"I was using the computer he sent you, reading files, and the screen blanked. It scared me. I thought it had fried, but before I could do anything about it, the screen read: 'Hi, Ellie. It's Dad.' I only talk to him on that computer; he told me not to try to use anything else. He's amazing—and a little scary. But I have learned a lot that the files didn't tell me, mainly things about how dad understood what he was doing, what he took various failures to mean. I won't go into all that now. He's helped me think about how to get the Intersect out. "

"Really, how?" Ellie was glad to see Chuck's face clear. Maybe for a few minutes, she could actually keep his mind off Sarah.

"Dad's mind works strangely, you know. Second thing: He asked me a question: could the reason the Intersect is hard to get out be because it didn't _get in the right way_?"

Chuck looked puzzled.

"Think about putting a nut on a bolt, Chuck. What happens if you don't get the nut and bolt oriented to each other correctly?"

"You strip the threads. And then you are stuck."

"Right. Now, dad's thought is sort of like that. The analogy is only suggestive, nothing more. The Intersect was meant to be symbiotic. But the version you got from Bryce is not fully functional, despite how well it does some things. It is not symbiotic with your brain; it is more parasitic on it. There's a deeper neurological explanation—but I don't think we need it."

"Wouldn't help me much."

"Before we try to get it out, we need to try to…resituate…it in your brain, alter the existing cognitive architecture. Dad has sent me new files. They should help with that. If they work, they will also change the way the Intersect functions, Chuck.

"It will still do what it does, although it will have a kind of shut-off switch. You can turn it off if you want. If you do, nothing will cause a flash, even a stimulus that would normally cause a big one. You can also turn it back on. It will just be a matter of learning how to do it. Dad says that once the new files are installed, you will be able to simply 'feel' the possibility of turning it off and on. And then you can _will_ one or the other, like a toggle switch."

"My God, Ellie! Do you know how great that would be, just _that_? To go to a movie and not spend unexpected parts of it flashing? To actually watch the news without a near seizure and a migraine? Not to live in fear of the radios or the tv display at the Buy More. I've lived for months as a sane person who has sudden visions and sometimes hears voices. A little inner quiet sounds like paradise!"

"But that's not all, Chuck. Two more things, actually. First, Dad's new files include one special one…I guess you'd call it an add-on. A skill set. The Intersect was always supposed to make it possible for skills to be learned in shorter times than would normally be necessary. Dad has a skill file for hand-to-hand combat.

"Now, it won't make it possible for you to just suddenly be Bruce Lee—it won't be like that crazy _Matrix_ movie you like so much: 'I know Kung-Fu.' At first, you'll be at that frustrating stage where you know what to do but can't get yourself to quite do it or do it fast enough. But if you practice, work at it, you will get better at a rate that almost no one could possibly equal. At first, I was against this, Chuck; I didn't want you to be carried into violence this way. But Dad convinced me that since you are going to be stuck in the spy life for a time—or since you might have to run, " Ellie's face betrayed how painful that possibility was to her, "it would be prudent for you to have it."

"So when can we do this?"

"Hang on, Chuck. _Second_ , these changes in the Intersect should slow down the rate of damage. They might even stop the damage altogether. Neither Dad nor I am sure about that. And there's actually a piece of bad news that makes this good news better, if that makes sense. We were wrong about the rate and severity of damage. It's worse than we feared. If you don't make these changes to the Intersect, the damages will begin to be permanent soon.

"What do you want to do, Chuck? I can have things ready here for you to upload the new files as soon as tomorrow. What do you want to do?"

Chuck sat, his rising excitement sinking. "I want to talk about it with Sarah."

"But I thought you were keeping her out of the Piranha stuff, off our team?"

"I asked her to marry me, Ellie. I think it's clear I want her on all my teams."

"But you were trying to protect her, right."

"Yeah, but that was before I knew that Beckman knows. Before I knew that we had her on our side—or that she wanted us on hers. And I am almost certain Casey knows and doesn't object, but if he does object, he'd never report us to Graham, only to Beckman. Casey's loyalties are strong. I think he hates Graham, although he has never said so."

"But Beckman doesn't know about the Piranha, or that you are trying to get rid of the Intersect, does she? Do you want her to know that or Casey to know it?"

"No. And I see your point, El. If I bring Sarah in, she'll know what I am doing in detail, and so be part of something Beckman would probably oppose. Still, El, for better or worse…" Chuck shut his eyes for a second, "…for better or worse, Reno changed things for me. I can't go back to what we had before Tahoe. I want to move beyond what we had in Tahoe. I am willing to go slow, but not backward. Maybe, if she won't be my wife, she'll at least join our team."

"Ok. But do you think she wants to be part of this decision, Chuck? Like you said, Reno."

"I want her to be part of it. I…can ask if she wants that. I have to talk to her sometime, I guess. We do still work together." Chuck aimed for a smile but missed by a mile.

Ellie reached onto her lab counter and grabbed Sarah's letter. She rolled the stool she was sitting on close enough to Chuck that their knees touched. She handed him the letter.

"Read this and then decide what you should do. I don't know what's in it. But a visibly distraught Sarah Walker brought it to me a little while ago and I told her I would give it to you."

Chuck's face showed terror as he looked at the letter.

"No, no, Chuck. She said it is not a _Dear John_ letter. It's something else. It clearly matters a lot to her and she thought you would understand. She also wanted me to let her know if you'd accept more letters of the same kind."

Chuck took it and put it in his pocket. "Thanks for everything, El. We'll talk more tonight or tomorrow. I have a meeting with Graham and Beckman in the new spy headquarters tonight."

"I know."

"How?"

"You told me about the new HQ when you told me you were going to Tahoe. Also, Sarah said she had to work at the Orange Orange tonight."

* * *

Beckman finished her Cosmo and glanced up at Rose Pritchard. Rose was out of uniform and incredibly lovely. It had been a long time since Beckman had been at a table that drew quite this number of greedy male looks. When a woman is young, men look at her in the wrong way, when she is old they just don't look at her. Either object or nothing. Not all men did it, she knew, but enough to make for reliable rules of thumb.

Rose put down some pages she had been looking at, put them down with the others that made up the thick file she'd been rummaging through.

"This is a remarkable woman, Aunt Becky. As far as I can tell, despite the fact that she is troubled, she is not remotely deranged or unhinged. She's broken—but not like so many agents I encounter. She is clearly fixable."

"What would fix her?"

"Well, I don't know that she needs medication—and if she did, she'd need to be removed from fieldwork. I don't even know that she needs therapy, although perhaps that would help her.

"She needs time off. She needs someone to love and to love her. Look, this is a woman who has excelled at a life that is wrong for her. Think about how truly weird that is. I don't mean that she is supposed to be June Cleaver, all pearls and pot roast. But look at her early test scores, her interviews, almost everything before Graham made her his…fixer. Even after her dad and his cons. She's smart. She's sensitive. She's even musical, though I think she's forgotten that.

"She's managed genuinely to love people who gave her no love or some twisted counterpart of love. This is a woman who should have a life of friends and family, and an outlet for her considerable powers, intelligence, and creativity, even for her empathy, because she really hasn't lost that, either. She's been forced to shut off or…redirect her own natural impulses. Somehow, through all of it, she has found a way to stay mostly whole, even though I doubt she experiences herself that way."

"What would happen if she found a man to love? A man who loved her back?"

"Well, it'd be good if his name were Job, or if he were a grown-up version of Bunyan's Patience."

"Don't hear many Bunyan references these days, Rose."

"I'm not just a pretty face, Aunt Becky. Johns Hopkins, remember. Besides, didn't you give me that Bunyan book in junior high?"

"Guilty. Sorry, I got us off topic. Why do you say that?"

"You know how when you wake up after sleeping for hours on your arm it doesn't seem like yours? It's numb. Loss of proprioception. I guess that's the technical term. Your sense of the condition and position of your own body and its parts. When your arm goes to sleep, you can only figure out where your arm is by feeling around for it with your non-numb hand. Eventually, blood begins to flow and soon the arm tingles, almost burns. After a while, you are in control of it again. You know where it is without checking, as you normally do.

"Walker's emotional life, I suspect, is an arm she's been sleeping on for years. I think its still there and can come back to full life, but it will take a while, and my guess is that it will be a difficult while.

"She'll not only have the pain of reawakening, but she'll have to achieve a new sort of self-understanding, one that allows her to integrate those numb years into her new life. And that means those numb years will have to come to life. Blood will have to flow to them. No avoiding it.

That, the blood flowing back in…well, given what's in this file, that won't be any fun. At all. The man who loves her will have chosen to ride the tiger; he's going to get scratched, maybe mauled a little."

"Thanks, as always, Rose." Rose handed Beckman the file and nodded.

"I need to get home, Aunt Becky. I haven't seen my husband all day, and…maybe it sounds strange…but looking at this file has made me miss him. I'm going to go home and …rock his world."

"Rose, such language." Rose just smiled at Beckman's fake primness and rolled her eyes.

As she watched Rose leave, Beckman thought about her once-upon-a-time plan for Rose. Before approaching Rose, Beckman had suggested to Rose's mother that Rose consider becoming a field agent. She had all the necessary gifts and then some.

Rose's mom suggested that Beckman—her best friend—go home and do unspeakable things to herself. Beckman hadn't done _that_ , but she was thankful she gave up on the idea. She never mentioned it to Rose, even when Rose joined the CIA in a different capacity. Mothers! Beckman wondered, as she often did, if she might have been a good one.

Probably not.

* * *

In the Buy More, in the Chuck pen, after making sure no one was around, Chuck pulled Sarah's letter from his pocket. He looked at his name in her hand on the front.

He actually had not seen Sarah's handwriting often, apart from her signature on various reports and so on. Like him, she used the computer for almost all her writing. His name was in cursive, which surprised him a bit. Her hand was small and neat, efficient. He put off opening it for a minute.

Finally, he knew he could put it off no longer. He opened it, pulled out the pages, and unfolded them. From the moment, he read his name, he read transfixed.

A Red Test. _They_ did this crap? Sarah had been expected to do it. She had to become an executioner to become an agent. Had Bryce done this? Casey? Maybe not Casey. Maybe this was only CIA crap. Who knew?

Chuck read on. Sarah was _confessing_ this to him. Telling him about the worst day of her life.

Chuck wanted her in his arms so much that he actually felt himself start to reach for her. She wasn't with him.

Chuck knew she that had killed. He knew she was a trained assassin. He could do the math. He knew what Graham had expected where Chuck himself was concerned. He'd flashed on her early in their time together, seen her at work and seen her handiwork.

But reading it all in Sarah's hand, hearing her horror of it, her suffering—not reported to garner sympathy, but simply recorded as the aftermath of the event—it moved Chuck to his depths. The unforced, unselfconscious honesty of it overwhelmed him. There was no false note in it, no moment where Sarah told the truth but told it in a way to make herself look better. She just told Chuck what she had done and what it had done to her.

She had asked him to trust her at the beginning, but then she had confusingly told him to do that but not to believe her. He had never quite known how to do both of those at the same time, although he knew that she was trying to tell him that the falsehoods she would tell him would always be consistent with her concern for him. She would not lie to him in order to harm him, only to protect him. He knew she had tried to live up to that implicit promise. But now she was asking him to trust her and believe her. He did.

The problem: how to respond to the letter? Obviously, he would accept any others she felt she needed to write. Writing them was significant for her as reading them was for him. But what was supposed to happen between them while she was writing the letters? Could they try to start again? Could they try to pick up as if she hadn't run at Reno? Just acknowledge that she had refused, and try to move on? He couldn't backtrack past Reno. Chuck did not know the answers. _He needed to talk to Sarah_. Could he do it?

He knew he was angry. Watching her face change during the proposal (she had almost said yes, he was sure of it), watching her run into the crowd on the sidewalk, disappear—it had opened the lid on the Pandora's box of darkness he normally kept sealed inside himself: his profound fear of abandonment (parents going, going, gone), his self-loathing (Stanford and Bryce and Jill, going, going, gone). That darkness had escaped the box, and it had panicked him. That panic had soured into anger.

He wasn't by any means just angry with Sarah. He was angry with himself, mostly angry with himself, really. Truth be told, Chuck knew that he hated himself, hated himself for not knowing what he wanted with his life or who he wanted to share it with—every day in every way for the past five years he had hated himself a little more, with a hatred Buy More green. He now knew whom he wanted to share his life with. His short stint as the Piranha had also clarified what he wanted to do. Even without a Stanford degree, he had programming gifts that would put him in demand. He'd allowed events at Stanford to cause him to devalue those gifts, to think of them as nothing more than an illicit hobby, as if they weren't real gifts unless a diploma vouched for them.

He needed to get past being angry. He needed to talk to Sarah. To hold her if she would let him.

Chuck looked at his watch. It was already a minute after 7 pm. He was going to be late for Graham and Beckman.

* * *

As Chuck watched the metal door entrance to Castle slide open, he saw Sarah. She was so intent on gazing at her lap that she missed the door open, hadn't realized he was there. Chuck knew that if he looked at her, he would not be able to control himself, so from the time he started down the stairs, he kept his eyes from her. He could feel her look at him as he came down the stairs. But he resisted the temptation to look up. After the meeting, he'd find a way to talk to her.

Chuck sat down, disappointed anew with the mess they were in and the fact that they were back in Graham's reach.

And then Bryce appeared, grinning hungrily at Sarah. The crocodile that nested in Chuck's brain, Chuck's old, leathery jealousy of Bryce, began to scratch immediately. Sarah spoke to Bryce, but Chuck's pulse was so loud he couldn't make out the words. He just saw her smile at Bryce. Smile at Bryce. Chuck lost track of everything else for a moment….

And then he heard Graham say that Larkin was the new team leader.

"So why not just call this Team Larkin?"

Chuck realized that the voice that said that was his, and that his words were laced with his feelings for Graham. Chuck knew immediately he had made a mistake, knew even before he felt Sarah really look at him for the first time since he had come in. Of course, she would look at him to glare at him for screwing up. He dropped his head. He was on a losing streak out of which even Walter Mitty could not daydream his way.

And then the meeting was over. Except that Bryce was keeping Sarah. Keeping her after the meeting. In Castle, alone. Chuck needed to talk to her. He needed to know what the letter meant and what they were going to do. Instead, he was leaving her to Bryce. Leaving her with Bryce. He looked back as he climbed the stairs, and their eyes met for a split second. He tried to say all he needed to say in that split second, but he knew it hadn't worked.

* * *

Casey glanced at Chuck. Casey grunted bitterly, held it out, clearly an extended philippic on Larkin. Then he spoke: "Don't sweat it, Bartowski. He was never the man you are, even before I killed him."


	18. Chapter 17: Recommence

A/N1 Kisses have been stolen, knives have flashed, hearts are in suspension. And on we go. Thanks, everyone, for reading and for responding with reviews and PMs. End of term for me, so keeping up my story pace may mean slowing a bit on responses to reviews or PMs. But I will respond.

Don't own...well, you know.

* * *

CHAPTER 17 Recommence

* * *

 _Don't go unhappy_

 _To the ultraviolet home_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 32_

* * *

Sarah got to her apartment and threw her phone on the bed.

She undid the knives fastened around her ankle. Then she hurled one almost hilt-deep in the wall.

She was miserable—and now she was angry too. Not only had Bryce kept her in Castle alone, in front of Chuck (and Casey), not only had he done that, but he kissed her without asking. Bastard. He'd always been cocksure. She had liked that about him when they were first together, maybe for about a week; then it began to annoy her.

What most upset her was that Chuck had not made contact with her after the meeting as Sarah hoped he would. She was still nervous about talking to him, still upset, ashamed of herself, weepy. But she was also aching for him, aching to finally look at him. She was also worried, very worried about what he might be imagining. Chuck struggled where Bryce was concerned. He had lost Jill to Bryce. Now, given everything that had happened, he might start worrying that he was losing her to Bryce.

She grabbed her phone. Should she call him? Had he read the letter? What did he think of her now?

He didn't look at her until the final moment in Castle, and she did not understand his expression.

She chickened out. She sent a text.

Sarah: _Meeting with Bryce only lasted a minute. Nothing important. Can we talk, please?_

An eternal minute later, her phone vibrated.

Chuck: _Yes, we need to talk._

Sarah felt her heart soar, then plunge. _We_ need _to talk_? _Oh, no, Chuck, please don't end this. Don't end us. Don't give up on me._

She stared at the phone, desperately trying to think of some way to get Chuck to elaborate, other than asking what they needed to talk about. Asking would seem either weirdly coy or weirdly clueless.

Then her phone vibrated again.

Chuck: _I miss you, Girlfriend Sarah._

Countless angels pirouetted on the head of a pin.

Sarah: _Where, Boyfriend Chuck? When, Boyfriend Chuck?_

Chuck: _Burger place from before. Open late. I have a Herder. Meet you there?_

Sarah had to brush tears from the screen to read the text.

Sarah: _Yes! An hour_.

They had a long way to go to, she knew, but maybe they hadn't permanently derailed their journey to happiness.

She ran to the bathroom and turned on the light. She looked ok. She turned off the light and left the bathroom. She grabbed her bag and went out the door. She felt human again—a little, anyway. She was also suddenly _starving_.

* * *

Bryce was annoyed and frustrated.

He slammed his car door as he got in. He'd had…high expectations…for the evening. He'd expected a different reaction from Team Bartowski, particularly Sarah and Chuck. He had expected them to be pleased. And he had expected to please Sarah and be pleased by her later at his new apartment.

That wasn't happening. What was going on with her? She looked wan, exhausted. But she had seemed energetic enough when she threatened him with her knife.

He did not want to go back to the apartment. He was worried about crossing paths with Sarah again. She still didn't know he lived there. Probably not the night to surprise her with that fact. He put his hand to his nose. She had cut him a little and he felt dried blood on the edge of his nostril. She didn't make mistakes with knives: if she cut him, she meant to cut him and meant him to know it.

Bryce did not want to go back to his apartment for another reason. He had spent every night alone since after his first night out of the hospital. He didn't want to spend another night staring at walls. He wasn't sure why he was having such a hard time focusing and staying in focus. If he weren't constantly monitoring himself, he would drift. He would later realize that he had been staring at a wall.

He wheeled his car into the parking lot of a promising nightclub. He went inside and got a drink, settling into a booth against the back wall to listen to the music and maybe to find a woman to talk to. A couple of different women stopped by the booth. He chatted with both. Neither sparked anything. Nice, but he'd expected to be with Sarah, and it was hard for anyone else to take her place in his planned evening.

He finished the second drink and decided to call it a night. He'd just secured his cane and started to rise when Jill Roberts was standing in front of him.

He knew her immediately. The time since college had done nothing to make her less attractive. Bryce had thought she was attractive since he first met her, and he had never been entirely happy with himself for introducing her to Chuck. A few weeks after he had gotten Chuck thrown out of Stanford, Jill had started to find Bryce on campus—at meals, at the library.

Not long after that, she found him in his bed; they began to sleep together. Bryce had felt guilty about that, really guilty for a while, but since Chuck had made no effort to get back in touch after his expulsion, and since Jill had ended things with Chuck, Bryce figured both he and Jill were free agents.

His desire for Jill overcame his guilt. Bryce could count on his desire for a woman overcoming almost anything else he felt.

Bryce really never expected to see Chuck again, anyway. The CIA was planning for Bryce to become a field agent and to do deep cover work. Even so, even knowing he would have to leave after graduation, Bryce had been more serious about Jill than he revealed.

At a certain point, though, she seemed to lose interest in him. He thought for a while it was because she wasn't really over Chuck, despite the fact that she had broken up with him. That rankled Bryce. Chuck was a good guy, a genuinely good guy. But he never should win any pairwise romantic comparison with Bryce. Bryce was the obvious choice. But for whatever reason, shortly before graduation, she ended it.

Now, she was standing in front of him. She was in a snug, revealing red dress, its skirt seemingly climbing, its neckline seemingly plunging. She was smiling in the way he had always found compelling. He straightened the tie he had put on in the car before he came in.

"Jill! Jill Roberts! Wow! Imagine seeing you here."

Jill tilted her head and blinked at him slowly. "Yeah, imagine that. How have you _been_ , Bryce?"

Bryce stalled in the face of that question. She was looking him over top to bottom.

"I…uh…had a serious accident at work. I was badly hurt. I'm doing a lot better now, and hope to continue to do better still."

"Well, you look good to me, Bryce, as always. Toothsome, even." She left that hanging before she went on. "You are quite a welcome sight. I moved to Burbank a couple of months ago and you are the first old friend I have seen."

"Old _friend_?"

Jill looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. "Well, you know…"

"Yes, I do. Know, that is. I remember quite well. Lots worth remembering."

She smiled smugly at that and shot him a glance that suggested his evening might end nearer his expectations than he had thought when he came in. The world takes, the world gives.

As Bryce finished sliding out of the booth so Jill could slide in, she slipped her hand into her purse and activated a small device. Leader needed to know. Contact had been made.

* * *

Sarah was doing her best not to break too many laws on the way to meet Chuck. The Porsche's engine was screaming nonetheless. She forced herself to ease back on the gas for the third time in the last minute.

She feared to see him but that fear was outweighed by her desperation for him. While she was still a distance away, her phone began to vibrate. Chuck? He hadn't changed his mind?

She kept her eyes on the road while she grabbed the phone out of the passenger seat. She'd tossed it there when she got in the car.

"Walker."

"Sarah, this is General Beckman." Not Chuck. Her relief prevented her recognition of the speaker for a second. Beckman. Wait: _Sarah?_ Not _Agent Walker_?

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Diane. We can dispense with formalities tonight, Sarah." Beckman's own tone shifted from her normal clipped to something softer as she said that. "I am calling you to apologize, woman to woman. I need to apologize for a number of things. I fear you are going to be quite unhappy with me; I will understand that but I hope we can get past it. We need each other."

"General? Uh…Diane?"

"Good. I know about you and Chuck." Sarah had to whip the steering wheel around. She'd nearly lost control of the Porsche. "I am not against it. In fact, I am all in favor of it. I think it is a wonderful thing for you both personally, and I think it makes our team more effective."

Sarah shook her head and pulled the phone from her ear. She looked at it like it was playing a joke on her. No, just her phone.

"My order to you to bunker Chuck if the Pita Palace girl's receiver was not found was not an order I wanted you to carry out, but I had to give it because…"

Sarah was finally beginning to understand and showed it by completing the thought. "…Because Graham would have taken anything else as grounds for accusing you of not being up to the job."

"You know Graham. I'm sorry about the order."

"I know Graham." The car in front of her slowed suddenly and Sarah pumped the brakes.

"Then perhaps it will not surprise you to know that Graham has succeeded in taking over operational control of your team. Bryce Larkin is, in effect, Graham's surrogate, Graham's boots on the ground. I am only going to have limited influence for the foreseeable future. Graham will run the team through Larkin."

"Here in DC, Graham has a crack team working on a new Intersect. He wants one that will do more than the one Chuck has, and, frankly, he wants to get rid of Chuck. For Graham, Chuck having the Intersect is some kind of personal affront. Graham is obsessed with the Intersect. I don't think I exaggerate when I say that is why Marge left him, or a big part of the reason."

"Marge left him? I didn't know. I never met her; I just knew of her. Of course, Graham and I don't really talk. Never did. He sends me orders. I obey."

"Is that still true, Sarah? Would you have been allowed us to bunker Chuck if Graham had given you the order I gave you?"

"Hell, no."

"Good. I'm also sorry about Graham's entertainment order. I might have done something about that, but I figured you had the situation…in hand."

Sarah's small laugh was self-conscious. _Beckman_ just made a sex joke? Sarah pulled her phone away from her ear and looked at it again. It hadn't changed.

"I am still trying to understand Graham's exact plan for the Intersect. But I am not going to allow him to execute Chuck. No matter what. I assume we are on the same page where that is concerned, Sarah."

"Yes."

"But I have something else to apologize for, Sarah. That fake drop in Tahoe was not so fake. I sent Chuck papers at that drop."

"Papers?"

"Yes. I sent him copies of pages describing the regulations governing agents and spouses. And I sent him brochures for _Union Station._ "

Sarah drove her foot down on the brake. The Porsche nosedived and Sarah jerked the wheel. As it stopped, the car rocked unsteadily on the side of the road. Cars honked at her as they sped by, that pitchy passing Doppler Shift.

"What did you just say? Did you order Chuck to _propose_?" Sarah asked this through clenched teeth.

"No, No, Sarah. No. I just sent him the information and asked him if he was willing to gamble."

" _Why_? Why would you _do_ that?"

Beckman blew out a breath loudly enough that Sarah could hear it on the phone.

"Explaining why is hard, Sarah. I don't know that the plan I chose was the one that made the most sense. But here is my explanation, such as it is.

"On the one hand, I did it for the two of you. I honestly did. I could see what was happening between you two, Sarah. Casey's reports, while never about whether you two were a couple, supported what I took myself to see. There was plenty of video and audio evidence, as long as you knew what to look or listen for, and I did. But it was mostly Bartowski himself."

"Chuck?"

"His performance on missions was bizarrely effective. Still, more often than not, it was not primarily the mission objective that motivated Bartowski's involvement. Of course, he wanted the missions to succeed and worked to make it happen. I mean rather that his involvement was motivated more by concern for you than by concern for the mission objectives. Even you, in your reports, mentioned more than once that the asset would not stay in the car. "

"How hard is it to just _stay in the car_?" Sarah asked rhetorically before she realized she had asked it at all. A smile entered Beckman's voice.

"Eventually I knew the reason was that _you were not in the car_. From almost the beginning of your time in Burbank, Sarah, that man has been willing to die for you. And, as reports made clear, yours and Casey's, although of course, neither of you said it, you, Sarah, were willing to do the same for him. Now, you could say that was just you doing your job, but I know it was more than that.

"Maybe that will help you understand why I did what I did.

"Protecting Bartowski was and is your job, Sarah. But you are not doing it _because_ it is your job, you are doing it because you are, Sarah—let's both face this honestly—because you are in love with him." Sarah allowed herself to sigh. _Amazing, everyone knew what she couldn't_ say.

"I did what I did because I wanted to help the two of you—but it was also my job. I thought that the two of you were heading in that direction, but that maybe you needed a bit of a push to get clear about just how far in that direction you'd already traveled. Maybe I was wrong about that—but I wonder?

"Anyway, I also knew that the two of you married would challenge Graham's plans, frustrate his expectations, and give me more time to figure out what he is doing. But it would mainly have kept my best team in the field in what I believed would be its best configuration.

"Graham only sees what he believes, Sarah. He believes Bartowski is an earthen vessel, unfit the treasure that is the Intersect—Graham's thinks his light is hidden under Bartowski's basket. Larkin should have had the Intersect, or maybe you.

"I believed that too, I admit, at first. But I don't only see what I believe. I make myself believe what I see.

"What I saw was that Bartowski did not just unite the data banks of the NSA and CIA in his head, he united intelligence with heart. I always felt that was the goal, although I admit I have shortchanged the heart side of the union too often. I suspect you would say the same of yourself, Sarah."

"Yes."

But I saw one other thing, Sarah. I saw that the Intersect is not just a computer plus Bartowski. It is a computer plus Bartowski _plus you_.

"The Intersect has three vital parts, and you are one of them because you are vital to Bartowski, and because you are what puts and keeps the Intersect in motion, keeps him in the field, keeps him in meaningful contact with the world. If Bartowski did not have you, we would not have the Intersect we have. We'd have the machine man Graham thinks we have. What do you think would have happened to Chuck if you hadn't come, Sarah?

Sarah closed her eyes. "He'd have ended up dead or suicidal in some bunker."

"I fear that is so.

"So, too long for _long story short_ , I know, I did it for the two of you _and_ I did it for the sake of the best team I have ever had. I've been talking about Graham, but I have not forgotten, and you should not forget that Fulcrum is still out there, still hunting the Intersect. I need my best team at its best if we are going to beat Fulcrum."

Sarah watched the lights of passing cars, their stream running at the same speed as her stream of thought.

"This is a lot to process, Diane. I'm pissed at you right now, frankly. Maybe your motivations were good, but why couldn't you just have talked to us about this in Tahoe?"

Beckman's answer was immediate: "Because I did not want it to seem like an order. I thought Chuck, given that he has no history of obeying orders, would take my suggestion as just a suggestion. I worried that if I approached you, you would take it to be an order in the form of a suggestion, too much like Graham's damn 'Entertain him'. I wanted to let you get married by choice, without any hint of coercion. For you to be able to tell your kids it was your idea." Beckman paused, stopped for a second, gathering herself.

After the silence: "I also believed you would say _yes_ if he asked. I'm sorry for the position I have put you in. I am hoping the two of you can work it out. I need you to go back to cover dating. Graham understands the operational advantages of that. I need you to convince Graham and Larkin that you are cover dating and keep them convinced. Casey and I will help. We will also make sure you have time, when possible, really to be together. That is, if you two are still together. Are you?"

"Yes. Chuck still calls me his girlfriend. He is my boyfriend. And I am going to be late. He is waiting for me."

"Work it out, Sarah. You are a remarkable woman. He is a remarkable man. Don't let go of each other. I need you together. And since these sorts of conversations should always end with a resounding parting line: _Your country needs you together._ " Beckman laughed. Sarah couldn't help herself; she laughed too.

* * *

Sarah stopped short of the door of the restaurant. She could smell the burgers. But her appetite seemed to have shifted zip codes. She knew she was hungry (when had she eaten last?), starving even, but her felt-hunger had moved away. Nervousness had moved in. What was she going to say? What did she want Chuck to say? What would happen between them by the time they finished?

She calmed herself deliberately as she had learned to do on missions. She needed not to screw this up. The last time he saw her was from the rear, as she receded from his gaze—for all he knew at the time, from his life. The last word she had spoken to him, in effect, was 'No'. Would that become the byword of their relationship? Sarah breathed out slowly. _Would her 'No' become the byword of their relationship_?

 _No_.

* * *

AN2 Remember, I have kept canon only up to _Hard Salami_. The rest of S1 does not exist here except in altered form. Ditto S2. What really went on between Bryce and Jill is never firmly fixed in the canon. I have made some decisions about it here, obviously, for the sake of my story.


	19. Chapter 18: Closer

A/N We are about to cross the border out of the Land of Talk. But there were things that needed to be said, and there are still some more things that need to be said in this chapter, so we have one final border town stop. (Of course, _I like talk_ , so I can't promise we won't visit here again. But I do promise we will not move back permanently. Anyway, it is a conceptual confusion to think that when people talk, they aren't doing anything. Words are deeds. Speaking is acting.)

Folks have been very kind to read, review and PM. I appreciate hearing from you. I will do my best to respond in a timely fashion, but I am running a bit behind.

Don't own Chuck.

CHAPTER 18 Closer

* * *

 _The saying says itself all around us._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 3_

* * *

Jill had suggested that Bryce come back to her place for a nightcap.

One thing had grown into another, and one thing had been taken off another, and soon they were sweaty and panting atop Jill's bed.

The evening had a different cast of players, but Bryce was still happy with the performance.

Afterward, Jill ran her hand in fascination across the scarring on Bryce's chest. She said nothing, however, and he saw no reason to make it a topic of conversation. She sat up slowly and looked down at him, leaning toward him on one straight arm.

"Somebody's been _practicing_. That was great."

Bryce was poised between being insulted and being gratified. As far as he could recall, things between them had always been great. Her dark eyes were hard to read, especially since the only light in her apartment was coming from a distant lamp in the living room.

Bryce reached out and touched her hair, feeling a surge of warmth toward her. He had missed her. He had been hurt when she left. He hadn't waited in monkish seclusion for her to return. But now that he had been with her again, he discovered that some emotional part of him had remained tied to her. That was strange to Bryce. He had reacted like that, felt a similar warmth, only for Sarah. And although he was not sure—it could just be his annoyance with Sarah momentarily squelching his feelings for her—the warmth he felt for Jill seemed stronger, deeper.

But he did not know what to do with that. Jill had been Chuck's girlfriend. Chuck was the Intersect. Bryce was a CIA agent, the leader of Chuck's team. Chuck already held Jill against him. Five years or so had not made Bryce's sleeping with Jill the first time ok—Chuck was still obviously angry. And it sure wasn't going to make Bryce's sleeping with Jill the second time ok.

They could never be together at his place. Sarah lived there and Chuck would be around at times for cover dates with Sarah. Sarah might even have seen a picture of Jill. It would be just like Chuck to carry one around and show it to women on first dates with them—and then talk about the breakup. Chuck was a disaster with women.

Bryce wondered again if he should tell Chuck what really happened at Stanford. Tell him about the professor and the tests and the CIA.

Chuck was half-afraid of the weapons in _Zork_. He could never have survived in that CIA program. Bryce hated to have to make Chuck's mind up for him, but Chuck was also just the sort of guy who would have said 'Yes' to some patriotic mumbo-jumbo about why he should join the CIA program. The guy had zero sense of self-preservation.

Jill's mouth smothered Bryce's momentary reflection. She leaned into him and then put her body along the length of his. Maybe this was just going to be one night, just tonight. But no reason not to make the best of it. Bryce wanted her and he was responding to her kiss.

* * *

Graham chewed on a couple of aspirin. He had taken so many he no longer rebelled against their acrid taste. Same shitty taste, different shitty day.

Graham was now in operational control of Team Bartowski. Larkin was going to run the show there, keep things under control. It was time to see what the Intersect could do. The information would help perfect the new Intersect Graham's research team was struggling to create. If Larkin pushed too hard, and Bartowski ended up a babbling idiot, well, that was how things went. It wasn't like Bartowski wasn't already a babbling idiot. How would anyone tell the difference?

Larkin had no idea how much damage the Intersect could do and likely by now had done to Bartowski's brain. Graham would've liked to give Walker a kill order for Bartowski, but now there was no real need. Time was on Graham's side, not Bartowski's.

Graham was hopeful Larkin would be back with Walker soon. Graham liked the Andersons; eventually, they'd make a hell of an Intersected enforcer team. It was a shame for them to be separated. Time for a reconciliation.

That last thought made Graham's head hurt worse. He'd tried again with Marge yesterday, but she would not take his calls.

He pulled her picture out of the top drawer of his desk. His head couldn't take it sitting on top of his desk. It hurt too much for her to be always in view. Chewing aspirin was a fair price to pay to look at her for a few seconds without blinding pain. He looked.

He made himself put the picture away. He'd look at it again tomorrow.

None of this was getting any easier.

And all of it was Bartowski's fault.

* * *

Sarah walked into the restaurant. Chuck was already there, sitting in the booth they sat in before.

The same bored waitress was standing at the table, sleepily putting two glasses of water down. Sarah walked to the table. Chuck stood. They looked at each other for a diffident second. They hugged—but to any onlooker, it would have seemed each had poison ivy and feared giving it to the other.

Chuck pulled back first and smiled. Emotional and physical exhaustion made his eyes dull and kept the smile trapped on his lips. She knew her return smile must have been similar.

They sat. The waitress returned and just stood there. Chuck started to order for them when the waitress spoke. "You two have been here before. I remember. My boss asked about you. You seemed happy. I told him you were in love." Chuck's mouth stopped moving and he glanced at Sarah. She dropped her gaze.

When Sarah looked back up, Chuck had looked away, back at the waitress. He ordered the same thing they had last time, turning to her with an implied question as he did. She nodded. That was what she wanted—what they had before.

The waitress left and it was time for one of them to talk. Usually, that would have been Chuck. Tonight, it was Sarah.

"Thanks, Chuck, for the text. For the 'girlfriend'. That made me happy."

Chuck knew she was telling the truth, although she did not look happy.

"The same with your 'boyfriend'. Both of them. They made me happy."

"So, Chuck...we're...still together? Even though I...turned down your proposal? Even though...I ran?"

"I still want to be together, Sarah, if you do. So, your saying 'No' was not intended to end us?"

"No, Chuck. I didn't really…exactly…turn down you, us…actually...I mean…I don't know what I mean. Just don't dwell on Reno, Chuck, please. Let's not make that our defining moment."

"That's not going to be easy. I can't stop reliving it." Chuck said that simply, without rancor or bitterness. He was not accusing her of anything.

Sarah pressed her lips together and knotted her brow, fighting back tears.

"Why did you propose, Chuck? Why then, why there?"

"I thought of it earlier in the week. I don't know that I would have done it but then…"

"...Then, Beckman."

"Yes, yeah, how did you know?"

"She told me. Just a minute ago. She called me in the car."

"Why did she suggest it to me? Other than because it would make it harder for us to be separated, and since I realize she does not want us to be separated."

"She thinks we are better together, Chuck." Sarah's tone continued with a greater tincture of entreaty.

"I agree."

"She means personally, not just professionally."

"I agree."

"So do I, Chuck."

"I guess that gets us to the question we're inching toward. If we are still together, _how_ are we still together?" Chuck's voice shook slightly. Sarah's hands became fists in her lap.

Pause. Pause. Pause.

"I want to be your boyfriend, Sarah. But I don't know if I can be your boyfriend, not really, if your refusal means that we don't have a future, means that we just have _now_.

"Don't worry: I'm not proposing again or trying to give you a pre-engagement ring," Chuck laughed quietly and nervously at himself, "I just can't be together if I know that there is no possibility of a future for us. If there's no possibility of that, I'll have to take my chances with Bryce and Casey and your replacement, if they assign one. I can't go back to before Tahoe.

"Sarah, was your 'No' in Reno your final word on our future?"

"Did you read my letter, Chuck?"

Chuck took a quick, deep breath. "Sarah, please don't answer my question with a question. Please."

Sarah reached across the table and took his hand. It was their first real touch since Reno. They both relaxed a bit, despite the continuing tension between them.

"Chuck, that's not what I am doing. I need to know the answer to my questions in order to answer yours." Her eyes were soft blue.

"Yes, Sarah, I read the letter, every word of it."

"And you still want a future with me?"

"Yes, I do."

The burgers finally arrived. They ate quietly for a while, glancing at each other occasionally.

Sarah knew what she needed, needed to say. She said it. "Then I will keep writing the letters and you will keep reading them. Until I finish writing the letters—and I warn you, I don't know how long that will be—I want us to do what you said when you first told me the Piranha's plan.

"I want us to have a long-distance relationship. We will correspond—that is, I will write and you will read. We will see each other at work. We will cover date if that's what Bryce wants. I assume he will. We will be _together_ but apart. We'll be doing it for the sake of our future.

"Beckman needs us to keep Graham and Bryce in the dark about our feelings. You still want to try to get rid of the Intersect, so in one sense I don't see how we can keep from going back to before Tahoe.

"But in another sense, we will be—if you'll forgive me for putting it this way, _in between_ Tahoe and Reno. Not in Tahoe, but not all the way to Reno. We will be working toward a future. I need to do this, Chuck. I can't fully explain it. Doing it is not going to change my feelings for you. It's because I _know_ how I feel about you that I am doing it, finally doing it.

"I know you think that you know me and that you understand who I have been and what I have done. But I can't face you waking up some day in a few years, and suddenly understanding, really understanding, that Charly Baltimore is the mother of your children."

Sarah's blush echoed Chuck's.

"You were watching that, after all?"

"Yes, but that movie was hard for me."

"I thought you quit watching because it kept breaking protocol."

"I _tried_ to quit watching because it was breaking my heart."

Chuck sat silent, admonished.

"…I promise this won't go on forever, Chuck. I felt better as soon as I wrote the first letter—and you…you still want me. "

Chuck refocused on her and his eyes underscored that fact. Then his eyes clouded.

"So Bryce is going to think you are available? I'm going to have to watch him do what he did today, or worse? I don't know if I am strong enough to do it. It nearly killed me today." Chuck unconsciously drummed his fingers on the tabletop; Sarah could feel his knee going up and down under the table.

"No. I made it clear to Bryce that I am not interested. I am sure I convinced him. He's always been a little afraid of me; he got the point."

Chuck peered at her, a question in his eyes. Then he let it go. His fingers and knee stilled.

"You don't have to do this, Chuck. No normal girl would put you through this. I will be…hurt but I won't blame you if you want to back out, now, tomorrow, whenever. If you decide you want me to leave."

Chuck stared down at his nearly empty plate. He looked back up with a benedictory smile.

"So I guess we're pen pals—but with potential?"

Sarah smiled her first full smile since Reno. "Yes, with potential."

* * *

They fell into more comfortable talk, comparing notes on their last visit to the restaurant and this one, and wondering together about the bored waitress. Chuck wondered if she needed to sleep since consciousness seemed to make so few demands on her.

"...Her sleeping would be like a chia pet taking a nap."

They laughed. After a while, Chuck took them back into more serious matters.

"Ok. Can we be _together_ while we are together apart?"

"Eventually, if we can find a place and a time, and once I've sorted some things out. Bryce being team leader complicates things for us. We need him to believe nothing is going on between us, and it will be hard to convince him if I am constantly glowing. But it may be a...while before I am ready. I'm emotionally exhausted. The letter writing will not make recovering easy. I will let you know when I am ready, you can be sure of that. And know this: if I could, if I were up to it, I would take you to the parking lot and find a way to fold, spindle or mutilate you into the Porsche for make-up sex that would give you religion."

Chuck drifted off for a second. "Um, let me know when you are ready for that make-up sex, and you can...spindle...me any way you want me."

Talk of intimacy helped them both to feel the intimacy between them returning.

"Look, Sarah, I've got to ask you something else. I have made progress on the Piranha stuff. On the Intersect. But I now face a big decision about it—a decision that could fairly radically affect my future.

"I would like you to help me make the decision. But it would mean in effect that you will be joining Team Piranha, and even though Beckman is on our side about being together, I don't know if she will be my side about the Intersect. She wants there to be an Intersect, after all.

"Well, Chuck, I was never…I am not really crazy about not being on all of your teams."

"I know. So you want me to tell you? You aren't going to like some of it."

"Given what I'm asking of you, that seems fair."

"Ok. Ellie and my dad have figured out a strategy for eventually getting the Intersect out of my head…" Chuck was talking quickly, hoping to get the first part of the sentence by Sarah.

"Wait, Chuck. Ellie _knows_ about me. About Casey?"

Chuck nodded cautiously. "And Graham and Beckman and Castle."

"Oh, my God. I knew it was possible that you would do that, but I didn't think you would. And Ellie has known for a while, hasn't she?"

"More or less since the beginning of the Team. She and I have been working in her hospital lab. Dad is, uh, communicating via a secure computer he designed. Ellie has all of my dad's Intersect research."

Sarah boggled. "Well, your sister is one convincing actress. I never thought she knew. Bartowskis! Do you know how much danger she is in, you are in? Your father's files are invaluable—to the Graham, the CIA, to Beckman, the NSA—to Fulcrum. To all sorts of people."

"But no one suspects me, as far as I know. And, so far as I know, no one has connected my dad to the Intersect. Somehow his work got stolen. I don't know that story. But no one seems to know he created it and no one seems to be looking for him. He has been off-grid for so long.

"So, I am sticking to my hiding in plain sight plan. If something changes, we'll adapt. But for right now, I'm just a Buy More Nerd Herder who has lunch a couple of times a week with the sister who raised him.

"But here is what I now know about the Intersect. First," Chuck swallowed before he continued, "the Intersect is damaging my brain, and that damage is soon going to reach a point where it is permanent."

Sarah went white. She gripped his hand, the hand she had continued to touch as they talked.

"But Ellie and dad have a way of slowing, maybe even stopping that. It will require me to download new files. The new files will change the way the Intersect is situated in my brain. The hope is that improving its situation in my brain will eventually help remove it."

Sarah flashed him dubious eyes.

"I know, I know, it's counterintuitive. But they seem to believe it will work. That after we do it, we will be closer to getting it out of my head. Second thing I know: these new files will also change some features of the Intersect. I will be able to shut it off if I want—and then turn it back on."

"But if you can shut it off, wouldn't that stop the damage?"

"'Shut off' is misleading. The damn thing is in there, humming away; I can't stop it. Like an evil pacemaker. No, _shutting it off_ would be more like putting your computer to sleep than actually turning it off, I think. The point is that it would still be in there, in one sense still _on_ , even though I would not be flashing."

"Still," Sarah said, "I know what a tormentor that thing has been for you. To be able to shut it off would be good, right?" Chuck nodded firmly. "And when we make love, I wouldn't have to worry if I screamed out the code names of my spy missions?"

"Wait. What? Do you do that? You've never done that."

Sarah stepped on his toes lightly under the booth. "God, you are so easy."

"You have no idea…"

"There's one more thing about the Intersect. Dad has an add-on. A hand-to-hand combat skill set that he wants me to download."

"What is that?"

"Dad designed the Intersect to make it possible to learn things more quickly than normal. Think of it as a teaching tool. He thinks if I download it, I will be able quickly to learn hand-to-hand combat. I will have to work at it, but my speed to mastery should be greatly enhanced. I'm hoping you or Casey will work with me, if I do it."

"But then you will never stay in the damn car, Chuck."

"I never do anyway."

"True. But…all the other stuff sounds necessary: we have to do whatever we can to keep you from being harmed by the Intersect. The shut-off switch would be a blessing…"

"But…?"

"But it's one thing to learn hand-to-hand combat. It is another really to have to engage in it. If you are on missions, you will almost certainly end up in a situation that calls for that kind of intimate violence. I don't know if you can do that to someone, Chuck. Hit them knowing that you may do them permanent damage, maybe intending permanent damage? Actually break a finger or an arm on purpose?

"I honestly don't know. I admit I can't imagine doing it."

"And even if you could do that—do things like that to someone, Chuck—I don't want you to do that, to do them. I am having enough trouble with things I have done. I don't know if I can... Just having a skill changes a person, Chuck. If you can play the guitar, you see guitars in a different light than someone who cannot play. If you master violence, you live in a space of violence. Isn't that the deeper point of _Li_ _ve by the sword, die by the sword_?"

"I defer to you, O Mistress of Knives."

"Thanks, O Master of Hacks."

"So do I get the add-on or not?"

Sarah sighed. "In a perfect world, no. But in Burbank, since you won't stay in the car and since it is unclear how long it will take you to finally be rid of the Intersect, and since I can't be with you 24/7 even if I want to...Yes, I guess you do."

They sat and gazed at each other for a long time. Eventually, the bored waitress brought them the check. They paid. Outside, they kissed, but chastely. Each was aware of how much the other was aware of what would happen if the kiss veered from chaste: they could never seem to escape complications.

They got in their separate cars. Neither looked happy but they both were happy. Happier, anyway.


	20. Chapter 19: Seduction Minor and Major

A/N Cue theme music, a picture of the running man…Cake!

Thanks, all, for reading!

Don't Own Chuck

* * *

CHAPTER 19 Seduction Minor and Major

* * *

 _Finn, Finn_

 _Tribal and double_

 _Wide awake rocks_

 _The fatal craft_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 20b_

* * *

Chuck, Sarah and Casey were sitting at the central table in Castle. Bryce was talking, leaning on his cane with one hand and waving a clicker in the other.

It was one week to the day since their first meeting in Castle.

"So, we finally have a mission. We have a new player in town. Hilda Byrne."

"Hilda?" Chuck stretched the name out. "Wow."

Bryce hit the clicker and the monitor filled with a photograph of a beautiful woman. She was on the beach, emerging from the water in a white two-piece bikini.

Chuck flashed. His eyes rolled back in his head a bit, and then he returned to normal. He took a hard, non-flash look at the picture.

"Wow! Must have been a cool day at the beach."

Chuck followed his second 'Wow' and comment with a registration of worry, and a quick, furtive glance at Sarah. Her face hadn't changed, but the blue of her eyes frosted over.

"So, uh, what's up with Hilda, other than the obvious?" Chuck plunged ahead.

Frostier blue.

Casey grunted. Bryce glanced at Chuck and then back to the photograph on the monitor.

"Sorry, sorry," Chuck retreated, "We just normally look at pictures of corpses and insane terrorists. We hardly ever get swimsuit pictures."

"You might feel different if you were the team member constantly asked to wear one." Sarah's tone was slightly dangerous, her smile neutral. But Chuck could see the frost melt in her eyes.

Chuck shrugged, grinning slightly. He was not responsible for wardrobe.

"She looks like that Bond girl, from that first movie…uh..." Chuck knit his brows, trying to remember.

"Ursula Andress, _Dr. No_ , 1962, Sean Connery. She was the shell diver, Honey Ryder." Bryce rattled all that off breathlessly.

Chuck, Sarah, and Casey all stared at Bryce. He didn't seem to notice; he was lost in an obviously pleasant reverie.

" _Honey Ryder_? Really?" Sarah shook her head, frowning.

Bryce resumed Earth orbit and went on. "Hilda is an assassin. Deadly. She has a long list of confirmed kills and a racing assassin bloodline that runs back to Carlos. She is one of the best and she learned from the best."

Casey jumped in with a question. "So what brings Hilda to town?"

"An arms deal," Bryce answered.

"Really? That seems odd for an assassin." Sarah waited for more information.

"Yes, Sarah, it is. Our intel, and Chuck can weigh in here, suggests that she is working for an old friend of hers, selling the plans for a new weapon to a buyer here in LA. Chuck?"

Chuck nodded. "That friend is a former member of the IRA, an old-time terrorist and a deadly guy in his own right. Peter Murphy. Murphy doesn't travel much these days. He has used Hilda before. He believes, probably rightly, that few would try to double-cross her. Everyone who ever did or tried has ended up in her crosshairs. Every. One."

Bryce glanced at Chuck. They had circled each other warily all week when both in Castle. Chuck knew why Bryce had planted the tests at Stanford, and he knew Bryce did not know that he knew. But he was not in a mood to forgive, so he hadn't mentioned it at all. He also wanted Bryce to tell him what he had done. That might make Chuck more forgiving.

Bryce's involvement with Jill after Chuck was expelled was, however, still an indigestible lump for Chuck. Unless that got cleared up, they were not going to be friends again. At least Bryce did not seem to be chasing Sarah. She must have convinced him she was not interested.

Bryce glanced away from Chuck when Chuck refused to meet his gaze. "Right. As you can guess, our mission is to get those weapon plans from Hilda. But we have good reason to believe she keeps them...on her person at all times. She has two men with her as added muscle and protection, call them Dee and Dum. She always has her knife on her person too—it is her signature weapon." Bryce's eyes flicked for a trace of a moment to Sarah. He went on.

"She is very cautious. She usually books a hotel room at a premium place and requires that the meet be conducted in her room. No one enters but Dee or Dum. She eats room service. Dee or Dum stops the cart at the door and takes it to her. No else enters but the person coming to the meet. She will have done extensive background work on that person and will be able to identify him or her without mistake."

"'Wow' is right. So how do we get to her?"

"Good question, Chuck. We don't. _You_ do." Bryce's tone was decided.

"What, me? I'm the guy who stays out of harm's way."

"No, you aren't!" Sarah and Casey said at the same time.

"Why would she let me in her room?" Chuck asked the question then he gasped. "Oh."

"Right, as Chuck just recalled from his flash, Hilda has a particular _pre-game meal_ , a superstition. Before any professional activity, a kill or a meet, she finds a man and takes him to her room and sleeps with him. Normally, the man leaves unharmed, although there have been times when Hilda has gotten a bit extra…spirited and the man never left the room."

Sarah kept her voice even, but Chuck could hear her gathering concern. "Are you suggesting that Chuck be Hilda's pre-game meal?"

"Yes, Casey is, well, too old to fit the type. And, let's face it, who could we send in less likely to arouse her suspicions than Chuck?"

"You mean just less likely to arouse her, don't you, Larkin?" Casey grinned evilly at Chuck. "My guess is that Bartowski's Stretch Armstrong doll would have a better chance of getting his arms around Hilda than he does. And there is no chance Bartowski's going to make her 'extra-spirited'. He'll be as safe as a gelding."

"No, actually, _innocent_ is oddly her type." Bryce clicked through a few more pictures, all men of roughly Chuck's age, tall, dark-haired. None looked worldly. The man is the last picture, however, was dead—his throat cut, blood pooled around his head.

"We've gotten lucky, as you can see. Chuck is definitely her type." Bryce put the clicker on the table. Chuck loosened the tie of his Nerd Herd uniform. He didn't think they had gotten lucky.

Sarah was sitting very straight in her chair. "So how is this supposed to work? What is Chuck supposed to do to get the plans?"

"A little minor seduction. He needs to get her to choose him. We'll make sure that he is the only man of her type in the bar when she comes down. She usually likes to find her meal in the hotel bar. We'll have a few folks there to fill the place up, so it doesn't look like she's being steered to Chuck."

Sarah remained tensely upright in her chair. "Ok, that's how he _meets_ her and, I suppose, _gets back to her room_. But what is he supposed to do _when_ he gets back there?"

"Well, " Bryce said, poorly concealing a smile, "he'll have to _do_ some more minor seduction."

"What?" Chuck asked, giving his head a shake as if his hearing had failed him. "When does minor become major?"

"You don't need to sleep with her, Chuck, just get her out of enough of her clothes to be sure she has the chip with the plans. Evidently, she keeps it attached to her body using a flesh-colored adhesive patch. Not easy to see unless you are...close.

"You need to be sure she has the patch, then you need to hit her with a hand-held tranquilizer. Secure the chip. You will need to spend enough time in the room for Dee and Dum to believe you have serviced...served your purpose. Then you walk away. Simple. Any junior spy could do it.

"Look, Chuck. It makes sense for you to go not only because you are most likely to make Hilda warm, but you may be able to use the Intersect once in the room to confirm that the chip is genuine or perhaps to discover other useful intel. Hilda has been in the game a while; she's tied to lots of not-nice people. Who knows what might be in that room?

"Ok. Our timetable: this will happen tomorrow night. Her drop with the buyer is supposed to take place at midnight, so we expect she will prowl the bar around 7 pm. She will want to have enough time for more than one course if she's particularly hungry."

Casey grunted gleefully, not at Larkin's comment, but at Chuck's reddened response.

"Be here tomorrow at 4 pm Chuck, everyone, and we will get you ready. Sarah, why don't you take Chuck, since you two are _cover_ dating, and give him some advice on what a woman who is not being paid to date him might actually like."

"Fine. Come on, Chuck."

Casey's even louder gleeful grunt echoed through Castle.

* * *

Six days earlier, after the night she and Chuck met for burgers and decided on their new plan, Sarah showed up at Ellie's lab a little ahead of the scheduled time.

She knew she was going to have to face Eleanor Bartowski. Might as well get it over with.

Chuck had undoubtedly told Ellie that Sarah was now on Team Piranha. So Sarah knew that Ellie knew that Sarah knew the truth about her. Anyway, they knew about each other. Sarah approached the lab with the slow steady steps of Sydney Carton. Except Sarah could think of far, far better things to do.

Ellie heard her come in. She looked up and then looked back down at the computer before her. Sarah walked over beside her and sat down.

"Sarah."

"…Ellie."

"I was hoping you might make time for a little girl-talk."

"Um…yes…here I am, ready for girl-talk."

"What's going on between you and my brother. He seems better, but still not at his best. Still a couple?" Sarah nodded that they were.

"What should I call you two? The Ghost and the Machine?"

"Ellie!"

"Alright. I needed to get a shot in. You've been living at my expense for a long time, Sarah. Knowing about me—while the little I knew about you was almost all false. I thought we were friends. I thought we were on the way to being best friends. But it turns out, the woman I like more than any other is a cloak and cipher.

"Well, Ellie, if its any consolation, for the last month or so you've known about me and I did not know that you did. I don't know, does that count as payback?" Sarah sighed. This talk had not started with much promise. "I wish things had been some other way."

Ellie said nothing for a full minute. She just typed away on the computer. She evidently finished what she was doing, because she pushed the computer away from her on the desk.

Ellie was sitting on a rolling stool with a rotating seat. She whirled the seat around to face Sarah. Then she launched herself, python hugging a stunned Sarah.

"Sarah, it's ok. I do know you, just like Chuck does. You think you are so hard to know, so inscrutable. And maybe you are to people whose lives you are not part of. Obviously, you are good at your job. But you are…well, I will just say it, you are like my _sister_. I may not know the details of your life, but I know you. It'll be nice, though, actually to believe the words you say to me."

Sarah squeezed Ellie back. "Sister? I'm the woman you like more than any other?" Sarah's questions were all delight. She squeezed Ellie harder. Ellie couldn't speak, but she nodded her head hard enough for Sarah to feel it.

* * *

Chuck came in at just that moment.

"We'll talk later," Ellie told Sarah. Even after the hug, Ellie's comment still sounded mildly threatening—in a _This isn't over_ way.

Chuck had clearly gotten some sleep. He smiled broadly when he saw Ellie and Sarah hugging. When Sarah saw him, she released Ellie. She reached into her purse and retrieved an envelope.

She walked to Chuck and handed it to him. Her eyes were openly vulnerable. He put it in his bag. He reached out and put his hand on her cheek and she leaned her head into it. She kissed the heel of his palm gently.

Ellie watched them silently. She turned and pulled her computer back to her.

"Chuck, this is ready. Are you two sure this is what you want to do?"

They both nodded. Chuck walked over and sat down on the stool Ellie yielded to him. She told him to hold his head still until the images began. There was a countdown on the screen. Ellie and Sarah both stationed themselves were so that the screen was not visible to them.

A few seconds later, Chuck's mind danced with images. He lost the capacity for spontaneous, directed thought and became pure receptivity.

All at once, with no warning, it was done. He sat frozen in front of a blank screen.

Ellie turned to him, still looking at her watch. She had known how long the download should take. Everything seemed normal. Sarah went to Chuck and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

"Chuck? Chuck? I forgot to tell you something important last night: I want you to keep that ring."

Chuck unfroze.

He blinked happily at Sarah and she leaned back to meet his gaze, then leaned close and kissed his ear.

"Well, how do you feel, little brother?"

"I don't know. I guess I feel like I finally took off a hat that was two sizes too small, one that had been strangling my head."

Ellie picked up a clipboard and took a note. "Anything else? You didn't black out, so I take that to be a good sign."

"It didn't hurt like last time."

"That's good too. It is too early to tell anything more, really. At some point, the shut-off possibility should make itself available to you. You'll 'feel' how to do it. It may take a little practice to get it to work well.

"The hand-to-hand combat skill set was included. We are unsure how soon that will manifest itself, how soon you will become aware that you have it. It will likely not manifest as a set of mental images, but rather as a kind of motor awareness, motor competency. You'll suddenly feel like you can see things that you hadn't seen before. You will be aware of physical possibilities you never were aware of before. I know that all sounds schematic, vague. You will know when it happens."

Ellie turned to Sarah. "Chuck will need to train. It probably makes the most sense for him to do it with you. Can you two find a way to do that?"

"Yes," Sarah said, "I don't think anyone would object to Chuck learning a few self-defense moves—at least, that's how we will bill it."

"Ok, but remember, Sarah. These skills are not sudden-onset, but they won't take long to develop. Be careful about who witnesses the training sessions. Don't videotape them. Chuck won't know what he can do until he does it."

Sarah's grin at Ellie carried a whiff of wickedness. "Seems often true of our boy." She saw Chuck respond with a slightly frustrated half-smile. The make-up sex they hadn't had crossed his mind, Sarah knew. It crossed hers. She should keep the innuendo under control. Who knew when they would be able to be together? "Sorry, Chuck."

Ellie turned away, laughing sympathetically under her breath as she shook her head. Watching the two of them in love was sometimes like watching two earthworms play Twister.

* * *

A week had passed since Bryce first slept again with Jill. It had happened several times since. He couldn't stay away, and she seemed happy about that.

He'd told her he was working as an accountant. She hadn't yet pushed for more information. He could tell that she was worried, as he was, about spoiling the delicate balance they had achieved. She hadn't told him much about her either, and he hadn't pushed, partly because he worried that if he did, she would. They hadn't spent a lot of time talking, at any rate.

She was working as a researcher for a bioengineering firm in town. Her hours were her own to set, she had told him, but she still mostly worked during the day, although sometimes projects might require her to work at night.

He liked the way Jill looked in the mornings, freshly scrubbed (a couple of times he had helped with that), with her lab coat folded neatly over her arm as they parted company.

Bryce knew Graham would not be happy about him being involved with anyone but Walker. Bryce knew he should walk away. Leave Jill to her daytime biological research instead of conducting it with her at night.

Bryce had taken the precaution of running her through the computer at Castle, but no red flags were raised. Stanford, employment with the firm she was still with, a work move to San Francisco, and then a work move back to LA.

Bryce knew he needed to give her up. He just didn't know if he could.

Bryce wondered now, a little, but without really ever pursuing it, about the purity of his motives in getting Chuck expelled. Maybe Jill had been more a part of that than Bryce had realized. Maybe. It had been a long time ago.

* * *

Leader smiled his death's head smile; Leader was a happy leader. Roberts was making rapid progress. She knew Larkin from college, had been his lover. She was his lover again. As the ancient Greeks said, _luck loves skill_. Roberts was the best of Fulcrum's agents. And her history turned out to be lucky: she'd been involved with Larkin. Larkin was still interested in her. What were the odds? She would kill him, of course; the odds of that were as good as odds got. Hard not to like those odds.

The world gives, the world takes. Leader smiled his death's head smile.


	21. Chapter 20: Hard Rime

A/N Here is Chapter 20. I will also be posting Chapter 21 more or less simultaneously. I am in the midst of end-of-the-term grading. It may be the middle of next week before the next chapter. Thanks for reading, reviewing and PMing. As they say in my neck of the woods, ya'll good folks.

Careful, the timeline jumps around here. And Sarah's Porsche is not a Delorean.

Don't Own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 20 Hard Rime

* * *

 _The seed is not afraid_

 _Of winter..._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 54_

* * *

Morgan missed Chuck. He had seen him that morning at the Buy More. Chuck had worked a short shift before leaving with Sarah. They'd walked off in the direction of the Orange Orange.

When Morgan went to look for them there—thinking maybe a little froyo for an early lunch?—they weren't in the shop. The two new employees who worked for Sarah were inside polishing chrome surfaces—but no Chuck, no Sarah.

Morgan wasn't entirely sure how Sarah had gone from wieners to yogurt, where Scooter had gone, how it had all happened so suddenly, but he had to admit: things happened around Sarah Walker.

He wondered what had happened on the week they were out of town. They'd been back a week, and although it was clear they felt the same way about each other, maybe even felt more of the same way, they still didn't seem quite right to Morgan. _Their_ there _wasn't there_. Morgan paused over that thought, not sure he understood it though it was his.

Well, he'd keep his eyes open. Maybe he'd figure out a way to help them. He'd been jealous of Sarah, but he also knew what a difference she had made in Chuck. Morgan wanted Chuck always to be his best friend. But he wanted _Chuck to be his best_ even more. Chuck had so much promise. Sarah was turning him into a promise-keeper at long last. How could Morgan not be happy about that, and happy for them? He was.

In the week since Chuck had been back, Chuck had not had much time for Morgan. When Chuck was at work, he was either out on installs or he was elbows-deep in some repair in the Chuck Pen. Nothing had been repaired during the week Chuck was gone, and Morgan had to admit the Pen had started to look a little like the garbage compactor in _Star Wars_. Morgan was a half afraid that Jeff might be down there under all those parts and pieces, swimming around, lurking…

* * *

Chuck and Sarah left Ellie's lab together. They'd stayed after the Intersect download and had lunch with her in the hospital cafeteria. They wanted to spend more time with her; she wanted to keep an eye on Chuck a little longer.

They got into Sarah's Porsche to head back to the Buy More and the Orange Orange. Chuck knew he had her second letter in his bag to read. Sarah seemed nervous. Chuck thought it was not about the letters. Giving them to Chuck seemed to make her happy, even if her happiness was apprehensive, even if she worried that maybe each letter would end hem.

No, something else was on he mind.

"So…Chuck. This morning I ran into Bryce at my apartment building. Turns out he lives there too, and on the same floor. Next door." She stared straight ahead at the road, her arms and shoulders tense.

Chuck sat silent. "Now, that is a coincidence." His tone contradicted what he said.

"Chuck, we both know it isn't. Bryce came to town expected to take up with me again, obviously. That didn't work out for him. He does not know it but I am taken. He does know that there I am not interested. In fact, he seemed embarrassed to be living there, given how things stand."

"The worst part of him being there is that we can't be together there, or, if we are, it will have to be logged as cover maintenance—and so Bryce will need to hear nothing from the apartment that is not consistent with us cover dating."

"So we can't let him hear my girlish screams?" Chuck's question cleared the air and made Sarah grin lopsidedly.

"Look, Chuck, you know I want to…But it isn't going to be easy. I'm worried about Bryce looking over Casey's shoulder where your surveillance is concerned. We could rent a hotel room under an assumed name—but I'd rather that be something we do because we think it would be fun, fantasy, not because we have to, necessity. Although I may be forced to just drag you someplace…"

"Sarah, I understand that you want us to be together. I understand that it will be complicated right now to find a place where we can relax and be together. I also understand, more importantly, that you really aren't ready for that, yet, even though you want it. It's ok, Sarah. It really is."

"But you don't want to go back to before Tahoe."

"No, but as long as I know we are together, I can live for a while not being _together._ I know the letters matter to everything between us. You are what is most important. I will wait."

"Thank you, Chuck." Sarah grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard.

* * *

Beckman was actually beginning to worry about Graham. At their last two briefings, he had seemed off, way off.

He had seemed off for a while, admittedly, but Beckman at first thought that was because of everything with Marge. Maybe this was too. She didn't know. All she knew was that he seemed to have trouble completing thoughts, and that he mumbled to himself in the middle of briefings, and that he was rubbing his forehead or his temples constantly. He was no longer really making an effort to hide his hatred of Bartowski. It oozed out of his gaze and darkened every word about Bartowski he said.

Beckman was worried that sending Chuck after Hilda Byrne was Graham's way of putting Bartowski down. Beckman had been able to ensure that the entire team would be involved. But she had no way of making sure that Bartowski would leave that hotel room alive. She'd have to hope that Bartowski was as resourceful as she thought, Walker as capable.

Hilda Byrne was a cold-school killer, full stop. She was Walker before Walker met Bartowski.

* * *

By the time they got to the Porsche after Bryce's Hilda Byrne briefing, Sarah's eyes had frosted over again, a hard rime.

Chuck could not tell if she was mad at him, mad at Casey, mad at Bryce, mad at some subset of that group, mad at the entire situation, or maybe mad at the worldhood of the world. She slammed her door when she got in. Chuck got in too and immediately buckled up, though she had yet to start the car. Didn't matter. He felt endangered.

She sat in her seat for a minute. She hit the steering wheel hard with both hands. "Damn it!"

"Uh, Sarah," Chuck began gently, "I'm sorry about staring at that picture."

"Chuck, that isn't the problem. Well, I admit, it's a little bit of the problem. But most of the problem is this damn mission. What are Graham and Bryce thinking? They're going to get you killed. That woman is _dangerous_. And making you _seduce_ her? Take off 'enough' of her clothes?" Sarah actually made scare-quotes in the air with her index fingers. "What the…? Damn!" She struck the steering wheel again. Chuck hurt for it.

"Sarah, I'm sorry…but I don't exactly understand. Are you worried about her killing me or about me maybe…seeing her naked or nearly naked."

Sarah did not look at him, but she dropped her chin to her chest. "Both," she said in a small voice.

"But, Sarah, I've seen a picture of her in that bikini. There's not much more of her to see."

Sarah looked at him like he had lost his mind. "That's a little like someone walking up to a wet spot on the ground in Yellowstone, looking at it, and turning away, saying, 'Well, I've seen Old Faithful, might as well go, not much more to see.'"

Chuck tried to keep from laughing. "Yeah, ok, I get it. I get that. Although that was a strangely specific National Park illustration."

"I've been places, Chuck."

"Right."

"Anyway, as I would expect you to know, there's a big difference between seeing pictures of flesh and being with someone _in the flesh_."

"Sarah, you know you are the only woman for me."

"That's just it, Chuck, since Tahoe I haven't been the _woman_ for you. The thought that…that woman will have you in her room, intending to sleep with you, trying to make that happen, that would make me crazy regardless…But when you add in that we have been…apart for a while…"

"Well, she might just kill me before anything happens."

"Right, because the thought of that makes everything better." Then Sarah flashed Chuck a quick, cruel grin. "No, now that I consider it, the thought of that does make things a little better."

"For a woman of such beauty, Sarah Walker, you can be seriously jealous."

"For a man of such intelligence, Chuck Bartowski, you can be seriously clueless. C'mon. Let's go train. Then I will give you some pointers on seducing a woman."

Chuck was crestfallen. "You mean I don't know how to…do that?"

Sarah gave away just a hint of a grin. "I will give you some pointers on seducing _another_ woman."

Chuck looked puzzled. "Did what you just said make things worse for me or better?"

Sarah started the car and maneuvered into traffic without any answer.

* * *

They drove to the martial arts studio Sarah had been frequenting since she came to Burbank. There was now a gym in Castle, but it was too small, to open to Bryce and Casey, too many cameras. Their first plan for training had not worked. This would be good. Sarah hadn't started with this studio because, although she liked the owner a lot, the owner was a little too observant and a little too wily for Sarah to feel comfortable bringing Chuck. The owner noticed things.

Chuck grabbed his gym bag from the backseat. He had put it in the car on the way in this morning since Sarah had picked him up. Sarah's was beside his, so he grabbed it for her. Together, they went in. Chuck, as usual when visiting any new place, was all eyes and ears, drinking it in. Sarah watched him look around.

A small, attractive young woman met them at the desk.

"Sarah!"

"Hey, Alex!"

Alex took a long, appraising look at Chuck, who grinned at her. "So, I'm guessing this is the much-ballyhooed Chuck Bartowski?"

Sarah had forgotten how direct the small auburn-haired woman was. Sarah blushed a deep red. "Um, yes."

Alex stepped around the counter and right up to Chuck. She grabbed him and hugged him, a hug somehow too big for the small woman who gave it. "I'm so glad to meet the man who makes this woman smile. She can't say your name without lighting up."

Chuck was taken aback by the welcome but pleased by it too. In Bartowski fashion, he returned the hug eagerly.

"I'm Alex McHugh. So, Sarah finally got you to train with her, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so. We've been training a little at the YMCA near my place, but it's crowded—and Sarah in workout wear only makes it more crowded." It was true. They had thought it might be a decent place to train, anonymous—and it was, for Chuck. Not for Sarah. She attracted an audience each time they went in.

"So I can imagine. Well, you two can use the private space in the back. The men's locker room is over there, Chuck," Alex said, pointing.

Alex walked with Sarah to the women's locker room after stationing one of her employees at the front counter. She stood thoughtfully as Sarah began to change. "He's great, Sarah. I get it. Does he have a friend?" Sarah pulled her shoe on and began to lace it. "Well, Sarah, does he?"

* * *

Chuck was already making strides in hand-to-hand combat. He could not yet spar at all seriously with Sarah, but he was not so far from it. Another week, maybe two, and she would sweat from the intensity of effort and not just from the prolonged effort.

He was at a point where Sarah thought he could hold his own against a garden-variety assailant. Not against Hilda, not close. And he could not hold his own against anyone for long. Chuck's combat stamina was still not close to where Sarah wanted it to be. But Chuck had run with her a couple of times during the week since they got back—in fact, one of the attractions of the YMCA was that there was a track there and that they could run to the YMCA and from it. He was able to spar at a decent speed for longer each time.

They finished and went to their separate showers. They met in the front and chatted for a minute with Alex. Sarah invited Alex to visit her at the Orange Orange.

* * *

When they got back in the car, Chuck asked Sarah where they were going to go to work on his seduction training. Sarah gaped at him.

"I was kidding, Chuck." She frowned. "I'm unhappy about this mission but you will be fine. I will not let _anything_ _happen_ …or happen to you. Don't let Bryce and Casey get to you. Casey was teasing me too, you know. Maybe me more than you, though he looked at you for Bryce's benefit.

"Relax, Chuck, you are charming, and even more charming because you don't believe it and aren't trying. Just be you. She'll respond. _I did_."

"Yeah, Sarah, but that woman is a hired killer."

"So am I, Chuck." The blue of Sarah's eyes darkened. She grabbed her bag and handed him her third letter.

* * *

Sarah dropped Chuck at his house. She would pick him up in the morning. They both worked morning shifts. And then there was the Hilda mission after that. Chuck unlocked the apartment and went inside. Neither Ellie nor Devon was home. He sat down carefully on the couch and got Sarah's letter from his bag.

In her letters, she wasn't telling him about everything she had done in the CIA. She was hitting the high, or rather, the low, points.

 _The memories that she did not want to remember and had chosen not to remember._

 _The memories she had given to her cover identities._

 _The memories that were in between them._

 _The memories keeping them in between Tahoe and Reno._

 _The memories keeping them from being together while they were together apart._

The first two letters had not been pleasant reading. From the first to the second, he could feel the Sarah of the past becoming increasingly distanced from herself, feel her growing, unacknowledged misery.

Reading the letters was not a happy experience. However, Chuck was happy about the fact of the letters. Sarah was confessing to him; she trusted him. She trusted him with something so hurtful she had not trusted herself with it.

He trusted her with the Piranha and with his future. She trusted him with Agent Walker and her past.

He opened the envelope, unfolded the stationary pages and began to read:


	22. Chapter 21: From A View to a Kill

A/N I dithered about writing this and then dithered about posting it once I had. It was a tricky thing to write. A writer I trust thought it was good. Here it is.

Don't Own Chuck

* * *

CHAPTER 21 From a View to a Kill (Sarah's Letter)

* * *

 _The way in this world is like the edge of a blade. On this side is the underworld, and on that side is the underworld, and the way of life lies between._

 _Martin Buber, Ten Rungs_

* * *

I got back to my apartment at 4 am. I was exhausted and hurt. I was sure I had a minor shoulder dislocation. It happened as I finished my mission in South America—but that is another story, one I will just tell you someday. It's actually kind of funny.

I sat down on my couch. I noticed the layer of dust on all the surfaces in the apartment. Even though my shoulder was throbbing, I was keyed up, anxious, and I thought maybe dusting would calm me.

I don't know why I thought that. I had not dusted before. Not once.

I went into the kitchen and looked beneath the sink. That was where my parents kept things like dusting spray and dusting cloths when I was a kid, back before I left with my dad.

There was nothing under the sink. I didn't even have a cloth. I stood there for a moment, struck by the fact that I did not actually live where I lived. I had put nothing under the sink. Nothing was there except the sink pipes and the garbage disposal and a small wet stain where a pipe was leaking slowly.

My phone rang. Graham. A new mission. Urgent. France. I needed to be on a plane in three hours. I hadn't slept but about four hours in the last two days.

Graham never asked if I was ok or if I was up for another mission. He just gave me my orders.

I hadn't unpacked. I grabbed my suitcase. Someone would meet me at the airport with an appropriate passport, credit cards, cash. There would also be a file detailing what I was supposed to do. Graham told me I could read it on the plane. I hoped it wouldn't take long to read it. I needed sleep.

I made contact with the courier at the airport. He passed me what I needed by leaving a folded newspaper on the seat he vacated near the ticket counter.

I got on the plane and found my seat. A little boy and his mother were seated beside me. I was frustrated by that. I needed sleep. The little boy was pretty. He sat on his mom's lap and hardly made any noise. He leaned against her and sucked his thumb while I read the file.

I was to perform an assassination. I was to eliminate a female target. She was the leader of a group of loosely organized terrorist cells. The cells were planning attacks on various public places across Europe. Some of the cells' plans were known, revealed by reliable intel. Others' weren't. There were some cells that existed on which we had no reliable intel on at all.

The woman did not delegate authority. She was the only one who knew all the plans. Coordination went through her. A bad strategy, but she was a control freak—her file made that plain—and believed that only she could manage the attacks. It was true that she kept her circle of trust small. But Graham and the analysts agreed that if she was killed, the likelihood of the attacks would diminish, and in the resulting confusion, the chances of our locating the hidden cells would increase.

There were instructions about how to obtain the rifle I would need. The woman lived in a small apartment building. Across the street was a building whose rooftop could be accessed from the street. I looked at the relevant photos. I decided I would probably kill her from there.

The little boy's mom fell asleep. He crawled over to me and sat on my lap. I let him look out the window at the clouds. He drooled on me.

I gave him back to his mother when she woke up a couple of hours later.

I got to Paris and went to a small hotel I had used there before. It was nice enough, but not on any major thoroughfare and not listed in travel brochures. I got to my room and left my suitcase unpacked. I fell onto the comforter. Like the floor, it looked a little disgusting, but I did not care. I had to sleep. I set my phone alarm to go off in four hours.

The alarm went off. I had a hard time waking up. I had managed to roll over onto my bad shoulder while I slept, and it was stiff and sorer than I anticipated. That worried me. It was the shoulder the gun stock would rest against, the one that would have to take the recoil. I knew that killing the woman was going to hurt.

I put my hair up under a hat and put on clear, non-prescription glasses. I had a reversible jacket and put it on. I had a small pair of field glasses in my pocket. I took a taxi to the woman's neighborhood. I walked to the building next to her apartment building. It was about dusk. I waited until I could mount the fire escape without being seen.

I climbed and got to the rooftop. I examined the apartment building across the street. I counted up floors, and then across apartments: columns, and rows. I found the two windows of her apartment. I made sure I knew exactly which ones they were so that I could re-identify them without counting. Just in case. There were orange drapes framing one window, blue ones the other. Through the windows, I had a view of the living room and of a bedroom. The window to the living room also showed me part of the doorway into the kitchen.

I watched for a while. At first, no one was home. Later, a light came on. The woman entered. She never touched either pair of drapes. A good sign. I had hoped since she was several floors up she would not close them for privacy's sake. There were no nearby streetlights, so she would not close them against glare.

I estimated distances. The shot was too close for the wind to matter, close enough to use a silencer without affecting accuracy. That was lucky. It would take me a couple of minutes to disassemble my weapon and a couple more to get off the rooftop. Better to have no sound to call attention to the shot. With any luck, I'd be on the ground and in a taxi before anyone had any idea that something had happened. With a bit more luck, I'd be on a plane before anyone had any idea.

I left the rooftop unseen. I walked a short distance and got a taxi. My stomach was hurting. I hadn't eaten since before the flight back from South America. I couldn't tell how long that had been, even looking at the face of my watch and trying to calculate. I stopped at a subway station and used the combination from the file I had been given to open a locker. Inside was a briefcase with a disassembled rifle and ammunition.

I got back to my taxi. I got out a few blocks from my hotel. There was a small place on the corner with ham and cheese baguettes. I bought one. I ate it back in my room while I practiced assembling and disassembling the rifle. I had to be quick, no mistakes.

I slept most of the next day. My shoulder stayed stiff and sore. I realized I had hurt it worse than I thought. It would need attention when I got back to the States. I had CIA painkillers in the suitcase, but they were strong but I could not afford any error. I left them alone.

The pain in my shoulder had made my sleep fitful and uneven. When my alarm went off, I awoke sick all over. The pain from my shoulder was bad, but that didn't explain why I felt feverish and clammy. In the mirror, I could see that my complexion was wrong. Maybe the sandwich had been bad, the ham or the cheese rancid. I had been so hungry and so engrossed in the rifle I had barely tasted it.

I knew that, like the pain in my shoulder, I was going to have to cope with the queasiness. I realized I had felt like that a couple of other times I was assigned a hit. Maybe it was nerves. But I didn't normally get nervous on other missions.

I suffered through the day and left my room. Outside, after I had walked a little distance, I put on my hat and glasses. I was carrying the briefcase with the rifle in it. Intel said she was always home on that day at around that time. It was a Sunday. It had just gotten dark.

I found a taxi and got out several blocks from the buildings. I got up on the fire escape and climbed back to the rooftop. I got to the spot I had chosen the day before and I quickly assembled the rifle. I aimed it at the window of the woman's living room. Through the scope, I could see her walking from the living room into the kitchen. She was in the kitchen, out of sight, for a while. Then she came back into the living room, looking toward the bedroom.

A little girl walked into the living room. She seemed upset. The woman picked her up and felt her head. Her reaction to what she felt made it clear that the little girl was feverish. That was odd. So was I. I could feel heat behind my eyes and coming off my forehead.

The woman tended to the little girl for a while. I watched it through my scope. It was clear that the woman was the little girl's mother.

I had a good shot. It would be a clean kill. I had had a good shot for a while, maybe 15 minutes. The longer I stayed there the more likely it was that I would be seen. I needed to pull the trigger. I waited a little while longer, even though it was tactically unsound.

The woman carried the little girl to the bedroom. I followed them, watching through the scope. I seemed like I was physically close to them, in the room, but that was just the effect of the scope's power and clarity. I watched the woman put the little girl to bed. The little girl did not want her mother to turn off the light. Her mother left it on. I watched the little girl fall asleep.

I found the mother in my scope. She was seated in the living room, looking at a file on her coffee table. She was a terrorist. She was a little girl's mother. Graham had given me an order. I shot her in the back of the head. I made sure she was dead instantly.

I disassembled the rifle and stowed it in the briefcase. I got down the fire escape without incident. No alarm was raised.

I walked a couple of blocks and then called the police on my burner phone and reported hearing shots fired at the woman's address. Someone would get there soon, almost certainly before the little girl woke up.

I threw the burner phone in the trash. I got a taxi. I took the briefcase back to the locker. I got back to the hotel. I couldn't get the queasiness I felt under control. The fever raged for several hours. The kick from the rifle had not been extreme, but my shoulder ached and throbbed and burned. I ordered from room service but was only able to choke down a few bites of bread and drink a sip of water.

The little girl looked like the little boy on the plane, the one who sat in my lap. I had no reason to think the intel on the woman was false. I shot a little girl's mom in the head while the little girl was sick and asleep in the next room.

I was on a plane before dawn. I took some painkillers, maybe a little more than I needed for my shoulder, and slept all the way.

Back in DC, I stopped at the grocery store on the way to the apartment. I bought some food. I bought a dusting cloth and some dusting spray. I needed to dust the apartment if Graham would give me time. On the plane, I dreamed about dusting the apartment. I don't know why.


	23. Chapter 22: Assassin, Chuck, Assassin

A/N Checklist: Ok, visit The Valley of Gehenna? Check. Now upward-bound on a slow-moving train? Check. (Amusing yourself with words on a cold, rainy day, Zettel? Check.)

Thanks for hanging around and hanging in there. Thanks for the reviews and PMs.

Don't know much. Don't own Chuck. No money made. No products owned.

* * *

CHAPTER 22 Assassin, Chuck, Assassin

* * *

 _The disciple will awaken_

 _When he knows history_

 _But slowly slowly_

 _The Lord of History_

 _Weeps into the fire._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 80_

* * *

Sarah needed sleep. She wasn't getting any.

Her head and her heart were both spinning; every thought was a river or road leading on and on. She could not stop worrying about the mission, about Chuck alone in a room with Hilda, about all the ways things could go wrong.

But worrying about Chuck and Hilda made her worry about Chuck and Sarah, about the two of them, and about Chuck's reaction to her last letter.

Letter. The letter. Her scarlet letter. Her study in scarlet.

Of the letters she had written, that was the worst. It had been the one she had dreaded most when she started remembering, really remembering, all the things she'd been keeping hidden in her long shell game with herself.

"Choose a cover, any cover! Step right up, young lady. Watch the memory! Whose memory is it? See if you can tell me which cover it is under!" _But it never leaves her hand._

 _A con conning a con_ —and she was subject, verb, and object in that sentence. She was stretched across a diagrammed sentence like a criminal on the rack.

Would they survive this letter? They couldn't survive without it. She had to write it, had to give it to him.

 _What are you thinking, Chuck? What are you feeling?_

* * *

Bryce looked up into Jill's flushed face. She smiled at him, long and slow. She rolled over and sighed. Bryce reached out and took her hand. He glanced around the room, suffused by the soft glow of the lamp on the nightstand. Jill had wonderful taste. The room, the entire apartment, was tasteful, warm and understated. Entering it at night, Bryce felt relaxed, at home.

That was a new feeling for him, one that he had not really had since his parents divorced and their years of volleying him from one house to the other began. His homes had been homes in roughly the sense that a statue's hands were hands. His mom's house, his dad's house—they looked like homes but never really were, never really did for Bryce what the home they divided had done.

Jill rolled back over to Bryce and looked down at him. Again, she gave him that smile. She leaned down and whispered three words in his ear.

Bryce stiffened. His eyes lost focus.

Jill reached over to the nightstand and got her phone. She held it in front of Bryce's eyes and pushed a button. She watched the reflected light rapidly play on his slack face. Another few nights and Bryce would be hers. He'd tell her everything she wanted to know, do whatever she said. She smirked and cast a look down at her own naked torso. It wasn't clear she really needed the program. Given Bryce's responses to her, she had software that might have done the job on its own.

Bryce stirred as Jill watched him. He rolled over and looked at the wall. Jill got up, putting on her short, silky robe. As she knotted its belt around her, she took one more look at Bryce. She'd go watch some TV; he would be like that for a while.

* * *

Chuck was on his side in his bed, staring at the _Tron_ poster on his wall. He'd been like that for a while.

He loved the woman who wrote the letter he read. The letter had not changed that, he knew. What did it mean to be in love with the woman who wrote that letter? Chuck was beginning to understand. He was beginning to understand—as she would have said, really understand—why she ran in Reno. What Sarah wanted him to know about her was not something she just wanted him to _know_ , the way he knew movie trivia or facts about state capitols.

She wanted him to know it in a way that required inner change; he had to acknowledge who she had been and what she had done and then live through that acknowledgment. She wanted him thoroughly to assimilate who she had been and what she had done into his own inner life. That was what she meant by her Charly Baltimore comment. That was why she was giving him the letters.

The _writing_ of the letters was for her, the _reading_ for him: could Chuck build a future on her past?

* * *

Sarah showed up at Chuck's the next morning to take him to work. She knocked on the door, excitement and worry so commingled in her breast they were nearly indistinguishable. Ellie opened the door, her hair mussed from sleep, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand. She smiled groggily at Sarah and stepped aside so that Sarah could come in.

"Coffee's hot." She yawned. "Chuck's in the shower."

Sarah grabbed a cup from the cupboard and poured herself a coffee as Ellie watched. Ellie let her take a sip or two.

"Sarah, are you two ok? You are, then you aren't, then you are, then you aren't. It's like watching _Days of Our Lives_ —but written by Kierkegaard. _The Lovesickness Unto Death..._ Chuck was up and walking around the apartment last night."

Sarah swallowed her sip of coffee and her heart.

Chuck came in at just that moment. His hair was still wet from the shower. He looked at her and smiled, then grabbed her and kissed her. Both the smile and the kiss were genuine. But she could see layers in his gaze. It struck her that what she was seeing as she looked into his eyes must be what he had been seeing in hers from nearly the first moment of their time together. How had he stood that for so long? She was worried about Chuck's physical combat endurance. Where spiritual combat was concerned, he left her gasping. He seemed like he could outlast anything. He had a black belt in rolling with the punches.

Chuck poured himself some coffee. He leaned against the counter next to Sarah.

"How are you?"

She shrugged. "Up. Ok. Sleepy, still. You?"

He shrugged. "I'm good."

Sarah knew his 'I'm good's and this one was not fully genuine. "Sure?"

Ellie was still watching. She sighed loudly and rolled her eyes. "Use your words, kids, use your words." She left the kitchen and went to her bedroom.

Sarah closed her eyes then opened them. "You read the letter?"

"Yes, I read it."

"You still want to ride to work with me?"

"I do."

Sarah smiled at that. "Good, I do too." She knew that didn't quite make sense as a response, but she could tell from his reaction he understood.

* * *

Sarah arrived at Castle a few minutes late. A couple of kids had turned the Orange Orange into a war zone. The brief but intense food fight ended with froyo dripping in hair and down the walls—and with toppings all over the floor like spent shell casings. Sarah helped Cheryl, one of her two employees, clear the battlefield and tend the wounded.

Cheryl and Bob, Sarah's other employee, were NSA field agents. Their job was to keep the Orange Orange seemingly on the up and up, and to guard the entrance there to Castle. Beckman had gotten them assigned before Graham took over operational control, so, for now, they were, if not on Team Bartowski, then on its support staff. Bryce was fairly openly hostile to them, so they tended not to spend much time in Castle. Sarah liked them both.

When she got down to Castle, she saw no one. Then she heard voices from the wardrobe room. She walked in and found Chuck resplendent in a very expensive suit, black, beautifully cut. He had on a white shirt and a black tie and there was a white pocket square narrowly apparent in the jacket pocket.

Bryce stepped back, appraising his handiwork, giving Sarah a completely unobstructed view. She underwent numerous physiological and emotional changes all at once, culminating with her knees nearly buckling. _God, he is beautiful_.

And all at once, Sarah was also angry. All this splendor!—but not for her, for Hilda Byrne! She couldn't even hope to get him away later and enjoy him in that suit, and even later, out of it. She had them on hiatus. _Damn_.

Bryce stepped back toward Chuck and pulled down on one of the jacket sleeves. "Too tall, but still very Roger Moore."

Casey grunted. It sounded like an approval grunt. "Looks like Bond, talks like Mr. Rogers. Maybe he can do this with his mouth shut?" Casey was talking to Bryce then turned to Chuck. "Hilda doesn't have lady feelings, Bartowski, even if she has impressive lady parts." Casey chuckled. Then he looked at Chuck hard. "Don't forget that!"

Bryce turned around and saw Sarah. Chuck spun in the suit for her, grinning. That made her weaker in the knees and angrier.

"Good, everyone is here. I'll start the pre-op briefing in a minute." Bryce seemed satisfied. Bryce and Casey left the wardrobe room.

Sarah walked over to Chuck and straightened his tie. She spoke very softly. "You've read the manual on Castle, Chuck, I'm sure." His guilty look confirmed the fact. He was the sort of guy who never unpacked an item from the box until he had read the manual. "Is there maybe a storage room around without bugs?" Chuck shook his head. "Soon—I promise—we'll put that back on you and I'll take it off you in the storage closet." Chuck smiled, but she saw the layers in his eyes she saw in the morning.

* * *

"So, what is the new weapon Hilda is selling the plans for?" Chuck asked. "Nothing came up in my flash."

Bryce looked defensive. "We don't really know. There's been a lot of chatter but conflicting chatter. It has not made it clear what the weapon is. The chatter suggests that the plans are for a new, more virulent and hard-to-detect biological weapon, but we aren't sure. Given the players, though, there is every reason to believe that there is a weapon and that it is, given that the plans are followed, ready to be used.

"I'm going to quarterback from Castle. Casey, you will be in the truck outside. Sarah, you will be at the bar posing as a guest. We will use you to hook Hilda. She's just the type who would find it appealing to beat your time for Chuck."

Bryce grinned at Chuck. "So I bet back at Stanford you never imagined you'd be the prize in a match between two of the world's deadliest women?" Chuck gulped througha forced, answering grin.

* * *

Sarah took Chuck to the armory and gave him the hand-held tranquilizer, a small device made so that one end was to be held against the victim, the other squeezed. The squeeze deployed the needle and forced the drug into the victim. Sarah went over how it was used three times. Chuck put it in his pocket. She gave him his earwig.

"Remember, Casey will be in your ear all night. I will join him when Hilda takes you back to her room."

" _If_ …You mean _if_ Hilda takes me back to her room."

"No, Chuck, I am looking at you in that suit. _When_. And remember," Sarah's voice dropped, "although Bryce is calling what you are doing a seduction, Hilda wants to seduce you. This is about power for her before it is about sex, although it is about sex…" Sarah ground her teeth for a second, "…She will seduce you, or that will be the plan. You don't have to initiate anything. Just be… _seem_ responsive to what she does. She'll want to feel like she knows all the right buttons to push and like she is pushing them. As soon as you are sure she has the chip on her, tranq her, get it, and get back to me safely, Chuck."

* * *

Chuck nursed his drink at the hotel bar. Casey had just told him that Hilda and her two goons were on their way to the bar. Sarah was seated at one of the tables. Chuck could see her in the bar mirror. Until Casey spoke, she had been so lost in thought, she seemed to have forgotten that was true. He watched her inner turmoil play over her face: anger, fear, jealousy, worry. But then Casey spoke, and she was all agent, at least on the outside.

Dee and Dum took seats at the table nearest the door. Hilda strode to the bar by herself. Chuck watched her in the mirror as she did so. She scanned the room, locating exits, calculating and memorizing details. She finished that quickly and was immediately scanning the room in a different way. Chuck saw her see him. She noticed him looking at her in the mirror, and she smiled at him by smiling into it.

"Ok, Bartowski, the suit's working. Let her come to you." Casey.

Hilda stepped up close to him and reached across him, picking up the drink menu. She was wearing a snug white dress with a deeply cut neckline, and she was careful to turn it toward him as she reached across him. Chuck didn't know how to fake a blush. He just blushed. She noticed and smiled. Gesturing to the stool beside him, she asked, "Is this seat taken?" She laughed at herself, her laugh oddly fetching and musical. "Sounds like a line from a movie, doesn't it?" Her accent was American, but with a touch of Irish, like she'd spent enough time in Ireland for the sound of it to have found its way into her talk.

Chuck made a welcoming gesture: "Please do. May I buy you a drink?" She studied the menu, not yet sitting down. "Yes, a Bloody Mary, please." Chuck was suddenly very aware that the woman beside him was an assassin. He dropped his smile.

"Don't you approve of my choice?" she asked as Chuck gave the order to the bartender.

"Oh, sure, sure," Chuck laughed, "nothing like that. I was just betting in my head that you would order a gimlet."

"Really? Why so?"

"Well, since you mentioned movies, as soon as I saw you I thought of those _femmes fatales_ : Barbara Stanwyck, Mary Astor, Kathleen Turner."

Chuck could see hints of pleasure and wariness in her response. "Well, I take that as a compliment, if perhaps a somewhat complicated one. Do I seem…deadly to you, Mr…?"

"Carmichael, Charles Carmichael." Chuck was annoyed with his cadence. He sounded like Bryce sounding like Sean Connery.

But Hilda just smiled, pleasure seemingly winning out over wariness. "I am glad to meet you, Charles."

At that moment, Sarah walked up to Chuck on the side opposite Hilda. "Charles, is it? I've been sitting over there for a while, hoping you would join me." Sarah seemed oblivious to Hilda altogether.

Chuck felt Hilda's immediate anger. "I'm sorry, but I am talking with Charles, privately." She made the last word a threat. Sarah was unmoved.

"Well, I'm sure Charles enjoyed hearing about how cars ran on steam when you were a girl, but it's time he switched from the History channel and watched something on Amazon Prime." Sarah subtly stretched to her full height. She had a few inches on Hilda, who was, while tall and in heels herself, still not as tall as Sarah.

Anger flashed in Hilda's eyes. "Mr. Carmichael was just about to go upstairs with me so that I could show him that experience is indeed the best teacher. You are only as old as you feel...to the man." Hilda leaned her chest into Chuck's shoulder, the gesture obvious and possessive. She stared at Sarah as she did so. Chuck knew Sarah's blush was real. Anger flashed in her eyes too.

"She's subtle," Sarah said to Chuck, but staring back at Hilda. "I imagine making love to her would be like watching paint… _dry_." Sarah smirked then continued, "Or, considering her age, like watching it _peel_."

Chuck felt Hilda, still pressed fully against him, coil. He knew he had to make a choice—pretend to make a choice. "Look," he said gently but firmly to Sarah, "she was here first and we were having a…nice conversation. I appreciate the thought," Chuck allowed his gaze to sweep slowly over the length of Sarah, and he let Hilda see it too, "but I have other plans for my night." He could feel Hilda uncoil, her pleasure at being chosen over the beautiful younger woman clear. The pain in Sarah's eyes was real as she looked once more into Chuck's eyes, then she huffed past him and Hilda and out of the bar.

Hilda turned to him, smiling victoriously.

"I think you said something about going upstairs?" Chuck asked. Hilda's smile grew.

"Yes, but let's finish our drinks first."

* * *

Sarah climbed into the van outside and slammed the door furiously. Casey didn't blink. "I'd compliment your acting, Walker, except I don't think much of that was acting."

"I hate this job."

"Well, your boy is doing good. He handled that whole scene as well as he could have, really. Sealed the deal with that look at you as he turned you down. There's no way she doesn't sleep with him now." Casey realized what he said. "You know what I mean."

"Have you told Bryce how things are going?"

"Yes, he knows that we are expected them to go upstairs soon. He's got a cleaner team and a medical team at the ready, should we need them." Casey watched Chuck and Hilda get up to leave. She took his hand and led him out of the bar. "You know that once they are in that room, we lose our eyes. We will only have ears."

Sarah shook her head. "Let's hope Chuck can keep it up." Casey shot her a glance. She growled. "You know what I mean."

Dee and Dum followed Chuck and Hilda out of the bar. They lagged behind to avoid being in the same elevator. Presumably, they would be on the next one. Hilda punched the button for the sixth floor, then turned and grabbed Chuck. She pushed him to the wall of the elevator. She leaned against him and ran her hand up his arm. She grabbed his shoulder.

Sarah went cold all over.

Hilda put her other hand in Chuck's hair, playing with it.

Sarah saw red.

Hilda leaned up, mixing her breath with Chuck's.

Sarah's hand was on her gun.

Chuck gently pushed Hilda back; he glanced up at the camera, at Sarah. "We don't have to hurry, do we? I've been waiting a while, I'm happy to wait a while longer. That way, it'll be better when it happens."

Sarah's eyes filled with tears.

Hilda grinned lasciviously. "Aren't you the patient one? I will make sure it is worth the wait."

Sarah knew she loved that man. She was his. There were still things they had to figure out. She had to know what that layered look meant. She had to finish writing the letters. But she had told him a lot at Tahoe and in the three letters. He hadn't run from her. Assuming he lived through this mission, it was time to tell him she loved him. She was not ready for everything yet. She was ready for that.


	24. Chapter 23: Comparisons Invidious?

A/N1 Chuck Amuck!

Thanks for reading, everyone, and for the reviews and PMs.

Don't Own Chuck

* * *

CHAPTER 23 Comparisons Invidious?

* * *

 _Go, Buster, GO!_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 67_

* * *

Hilda led Chuck into her room. She closed the door behind them.

"We've waited long enough, Charles—or I have. I want to see what is so cunningly wrapped in that fine suit."

* * *

Sarah and Casey both were listening intently.

Sarah could hear what Hilda said to Chuck, but she could no longer see them. The last glimpse she had was from a camera in the hallway as they went inside. She kicked her heels off under the metal counter in the van. She needed to be ready to run. She knew Chuck would not do anything with Hilda, but could he keep her from doing things to him?

* * *

"Well, that sounds like a plan. But I say: _ladies first_. That white dress is stunning, but I suspect that's because of the woman who is in it. I'd like to see _her_. So, how about I sit in this chair and you dance for me, showing me slowly what is so alluringly wrapped in that fine dress."

* * *

Sarah nearly fell out of her chair. Chuck? What was he doing? At least he was buying time.

Hilda pouted—it was in her voice. "But I don't have any music, lover."

Chuck answered: "I have lots of music. On my phone. I have this really cool app and…" Chuck suddenly sounded like himself. Then he didn't: "That is, I have music that I think you would enjoy, and that I would enjoy watching you enjoy."

Hilda didn't answer immediately; she just let out a trill of pleasure. "Then choose a song, Charles, and we can begin."

* * *

There was silence for a few seconds, then Sarah heard the music start. A drum, a bass line, an electric guitar. It sounded familiar…No, no, he couldn't, he wouldn't…Sarah sighed and shook her head.

"What's that, Walker?" Casey was puzzled.

"It's the music Jamie Lee Curtis dances to in that movie, _True Lies_. I don't know the name of the song but I recognize it. Chuck has…uh…shown me the movie and mentioned the scene to me…a time or two. Chuck is staging...the scene. With her."

Casey grunted and for a split second his eyes looked far away. "Good scene. It'll buy him some time. Get her out of her clothes. Kid's on a roll."

* * *

Hilda had slithered out of her dress and dropped it on the floor. She was wearing a lacy ensemble that Chuck knew must have a French name, but he could not think of it. Fear had nearly shut his mind down. Hilda began to dance with more conviction, swaying closer to where he was seated. All Chuck could hear was the drumming in his ears, the drumming of his heart.

Hilda turned away from him so that he could appreciate her, front then back. Chuck saw the patch on her shoulder, under the lacy strap of the…whatever she was barely wearing.

He was glad he'd seen it. He had no interest in seeing more of Hilda. But he was stuck. He had to get the chip.

He'd always wanted to replay this scene—but not with _this_ woman and certainly not in actual life-and-death _Spy vs. Spy_ circumstances. Chuck grinned slightly without realizing it, struck by the fact that Hilda was in white (barely) and he was in black. _Spy vs. Spy_.

She began to back toward him. Chuck was now sure which Hilda took to be her best side, her best feature. When she was close enough to touch, Chuck pulled the tranq from his pocket and struck at her.

* * *

Somehow, she felt it coming.

She turned and caught his arm at the wrist. She moved blindingly flash, a blur of white lace. Chuck's response wasn't as fast, but it was fast enough to surprise Hilda. He vaulted from the chair and threw his weight into her. They went down together on the floor, Chuck on top.

She twisted under him like a cat and before he could take advantage of his weight, she had gotten loose and rolled across the floor. Her hand shot into the small pile of clothes she had discarded. It came out with a knife. She somehow managed to get to her feet at the same time.

* * *

Sarah and Casey heard the violent thump and bump and commotion. Sarah panicked, drenched in a swift, cold sweat. The sound could really mean only one of two things—and either would destroy her, one way or another. She grabbed her gun and ran from the van, her bare feet slapping the concrete. She heard Casey, still in the van. "Damn it, Walker, wait for me!"

She was through the stairwell door and on the stairs almost in an instant, a ninja leaving a dark vapor trail.

* * *

Chuck had gotten to his knees. He knelt there in front of Hilda. She was in a crouch, the knife held slightly forward. She was swaying slightly, but not to the tempo of the music. The John Hiatt song continued to play even as Chuck slipped his phone back in his pocket.

"Bastard. Tonight would have been the best night of your life. Now, sit."

She pointed at the chair with her knife. Chuck stood slowly and backed to the chair. When he felt the backs of his knees contact it, he sat down. His eyes never left the knife.

Hilda rose from her crouched position.

"Give me what you have in your hand."

She walked to him, her knife motionless but poised. Chuck held out his hand. She did not come closer. She peered at the tranquilizer.

"Drop it."

Chuck did. It bounced gently on the floor once. Hilda stepped forward and crushed it beneath the toe of one of the heels she was wearing. Chuck really hadn't noticed that she was still wearing them until that moment. The whole situation seemed bizarre and ludicrous, and somehow still yet more deadly.

He smiled a funereal smile. Hilda noticed and her wariness increased. "What is it, Charles? Gallows humor?"

* * *

Chuck's fear did not go away, it just got pushed aside. Looking at Hilda, he finally understood something, really understood it.

Hilda's mask was gone. The suggestive, playful smile—gone. The flashing eyes—gone. Chuck saw the face of a killer. Blank—except for calculation. Empty—except for a ghoulish hunger. Hilda's face was wholly devoid of genuine affect.

At the bar, Chuck had stood between Hilda and Sarah— _assassin to the left of him, assassin to the right of him: in the valley of death_.

He had seen the three of them in the bar mirror. Before Hilda had come into the bar, Chuck caught a glimpse of Sarah. Sarah. Not her mask. She was upset—angry, frustrated, jealous worried, and so…human. He sometimes teased her about becoming a real girl—but she always already was a real girl. He saw her put on her mask when Hilda came in.

Chuck had watched Hilda come into the bar. Her face was briefly the face now on display above her knife: inhuman. Then she put on her mask.

Sarah and Hilda were alike in this respect: they were both deadly. Not in the same way, though.

While Sarah had not been forced to kill, not forced to do what she confessed to doing in the letter, there was something distinctly involuntary about it. She had not wanted to do it, she did not like it or have a taste for it—not remotely. Even excelling at it had not made her like it or acquire a taste for it, and that was telling. People typically regard their excellences as virtues—people typically think what they do well must be worth doing. Not Sarah, not so much.

Her circumstances, her childhood especially, had put her in a position where her options were limited. A position in which she did things that she regretted even as she did them, sometimes even before she did them, and not only after she had done them. Regretted them despite doing them well.

Imagine throwing keepsakes dear to you overboard, because you know your ship will sink in the storm unless the cargo load is reduced. You throw your keepsakes away freely—no one forces you. But circumstances constrain your choices. So much of Sarah's life had been spent throwing what was dear overboard, just to keep herself from sinking in the storm.

Sarah never mentioned the word 'regret' in that letter, but the word sounded in every sentence. True, she had tried to push the regret down, to find some way of avoiding a headlong confrontation with it, because she had been given no time to reckon with herself and because at some level she knew that such a confrontation would have undone her. But regret was there before she did it, when she did it, after she did it.

Hilda's mask made her seem human. Her true face was inhuman. Sarah's mask made her seem inhuman. Her true face was human, all-too-human.

* * *

All this ran through Chuck's mind at the speed of thought. It took no time at all.

Hilda was waiting for an answer to her question about gallows humor.

As Chuck looked up at her, he noticed—he wasn't sure why or how—that she had overbalanced, trying to keep her weight on the toes of her heels and not on the stilettos. Chuck did the last thing she expected. He grabbed her and jerked her hard toward him, her weight already tipped that direction.

Chuck twisted the arm with the knife. The blade caught his side, but, although it hurt, he knew it was not serious. The chair toppled over backward, and as it went down, Chuck, using mainly his legs, shot-putted Hilda forward, past his head, aided by the momentum of the falling chair.

She went over him and hard onto the floor. Chuck rolled to his feet and ran toward the door. Hilda's knife got there first—but that was good news: she had missed him. He heard her curse. Chuck could feel the patch in his hand, and the small hard button of the chip. He'd pulled it off her shoulder as the chair went backward. He was sure she didn't know it yet. _I have no idea how I did any of that, how I am still alive._

Chuck opened the door. Dee and Dum had misinterpreted the noises. They must have thought Hilda had picked Chuck for one of her extra-spirited sessions. Irrationally, Chuck thought: _Ha! Take that, Casey!_ He sprinted between Dee and Dum and down the hallway toward the elevator. John Hiatt was still playing in Chuck's pocket.

Chuck had spent a lot of his time as a kid running—running from bullies, usually bullies Morgan had antagonized—and one good thing about being lanky-of-build as he was: he was built for speed. Neither Dee nor Dum was built for speed.

Chuck realized the elevator was a bad idea. They'd get to him before he got on. So he slammed into the stairwell door and leaped from the landing he was on to the one below. He had a reasonable lead and it was growing. He sprinted down the stairs, taking as many at a time as he could without tripping himself. _Half a league, half a league, half a league onward!_

As he turned the on the next landing, he came face to face with a creature from mythology—a frightened, jealous, enraged, leggy, barefoot Valkyrie. Vengeance enfleshed. The immediate, overwhelming shift of Sarah's features when she saw him made him believe he knew what that Oasis song, "Champagne Supernova", might actually be about. He saw one there on the stairs. "Chuck!"

"Chip!" Chuck waved his fist in the air.

Sarah changed direction like a dancer and they were both running down the stairs. Casey, lagging behind Sarah, heard Chuck's yell and turned and ran back down the stairs. He got to the van and into the driver's seat at about the same time that Sarah opened the side door and she and Chuck threw themselves inside. Casey did not wait for them to say anything. He punched the accelerator and the van lurched forward and then steadily gained speed.

Dee and Dum got downstairs in time to see the tail lights disappear and then to turn into the enraged countenance of Hilda. Her eyes in the darkness looked a lot like the van's taillights, bright, red, and angry.

She was rubbing her shoulder. _Someone had blundered_.

"Charles Carmichael is a dead man."

* * *

In the van, Sarah grabbed Chuck's hand. She took the patch and chip out of it and slipped them into her purse. It was on the floor next to her discarded heels. Then she turned back to Chuck.

"Did that woman touch you?"

"Touch me? You saw her touch me. In the bar, in the elevator."

"That's not what I mean. Tell me. Did she touch you?"

"No. But...what if she had?"

"Then I would know how much I had to kill her."

"How _much_?"

"Let it go, Chuck, let it go." Sarah's voice dropped so that Casey could not hear, although he also did not seem to be listening. "And by the way, no more seduction missions for you. I'd much, much rather go on the run with you than live through the last two days again."

Chuck kept his voice down. "The same for you, ok? I don't want to switch places. I don't, I wouldn't…like it."

"Not really my sort of mission, Chuck. Graham has always known that. He's respected it, even if he often made it clear he didn't like it. That was why I found his entertainment order for Tahoe so odd."

Chuck frowned deeply. "I hate this job."

Sarah looked at him strangely. Then, her face cleared and she launched herself toward him, hugging him as hard as she could and kissing him. "Thank God you're safe!" Chuck yelped in pain.

* * *

Bryce got Casey's report. Chuck had somehow managed to get the chip from Hilda without tranquilizing her. Bryce laughed to himself. It was a lot like college.

Chuck always seemed incompetent—and then he'd pull a hippo out of a flowerpot.

Bryce's on-campus life was the frat guy's dream: looks, clothes, car, money…a star athlete, a good student. But Bryce knew that he never deeply mattered to the lives of other people. He was like costume jewelry: pretty, useful, but not of permanent value. If he was suddenly gone, well, that was a shame, but…

Chuck was the opposite. He was not popular, as Bryce was, but he changed the lives of the people he knew in real ways, changed the people themselves. Bryce envied those real connections. The only one he had was the one with Chuck—and he eventually ruined that. He had thought he had another one with Sarah. Maybe he had, or maybe he sort of had one. But even there, he knew she was always secondary to the mission, and she knew he was, and that meant that neither was finally, really committed to the other. The Anderson's were costume jewelry too, pretend wedding bands.

So much of Bryce's life was ultimately…fake.

That was one reason why Jill mattered so much. What he had with Jill was real. He had real feelings for her. If he couldn't be a field agent anymore, maybe he could just leave the CIA altogether. That thought would have been intolerable to him only weeks ago. Now, it was beginning to make some sense, even to have attractions. A life with Jill. The life Chuck once imagined for himself. Bryce had made fun of Chuck for that when Chuck and Jill were dating. Ball and chain. One woman for the rest of your life…

Life worked out in funny ways, Bryce had to admit it. He laughed again to himself.

Bryce's phone rang. It was General Beckman.

* * *

Later, when Chuck and Sarah and Casey got back to Castle, Sarah immediately got Chuck to lie down in one of the holding cells so she could check his wound. The cut was wide but not deep. Chuck whined and winced while she tending it. She was so happy he was safe she had to keep herself from jumping and cheering.

Casey came in. "Hilda and the boys are gone. In the wind. I hope they are really gone because if she is still in town, there's exactly one reason why."

Sarah looked up and at Casey. "Chuck."

"Yeah. She doesn't know who he is, so I think we're in the clear. But it would be a good idea for Chuck to be watched closely for the next couple of days. Since you two are _cover dating_ , I suggest—and I have relayed this suggestion to General Beckman, and she agrees—that Chuck stays at your place. Bryce is next door," Casey couldn't help a smirk, "so everyone should be perfectly safe."

"Wait, Casey. Did you talk to _Beckman_? Not _Graham_?"

"Right. Bryce just told me but I hadn't had a chance to tell you two. Graham is in the hospital in DC. There's something wrong with his head."

* * *

Chuck changed back into his Nerd Herd uniform and he and Sarah left Castle. They talked to Bryce briefly as they left, and mentioned that they might see him at the apartment building. He told them they might, but that his immediate plan was to stay in Castle and see if he could find out anything about where Hilda and her two men had gone. Bryce had sent Cheryl and Bob to the hotel to see if they could search her room to find out anything more about Hilda's departure. He told them he would let them know if he heard anything more about Graham's condition.

* * *

When they got to Sarah's apartment, she told Chuck to go take a shower. He had a few things stashed at her place, so he grabbed a t-shirt and shorts and headed to the bathroom.

Sarah sat down. She put her hands out in front of her, and they went from rock steady to shaky in a few seconds. She let herself go, and she dropped her suddenly wet face into her shaky hands and lived her relief.

By the time Chuck emerged from the shower, Sarah had slipped into a soft, silky pajamas. She had lit a candle and it was burning slowly between the two chairs by the window. She was sitting cross-legged in her chair, her bare feet tucked under her legs. She was looking dreamily out the window.

Chuck sat in the other chair. He let the silence stretch out, satisfied just to look at the woman he loved.

Eventually, Sarah spoke softly: "So, Chuck, _True Lies_?"

"Not the way I wanted to recreate that scene, Sarah. You know that…I think. I've imagined it…differently."

Sarah smiled but kept looking out the window. "Do you think Hilda permanently spoiled it?"

Chuck turned his gaze out the window. "Nope," he said after a minute, "there's nothing of mine you can't redeem, Girlfriend Sarah."

"I really believe that about you too, Boyfriend Chuck. You know that, don't you?" She turned and looked at him urgently.

"I know it, Sarah. I really know it."

"Good, that's good. I haven't been writing these letters…sending you these...cables from my past…just to confess; I want to be...redeemed, Chuck. Since I met you, I have felt like that has been happening. It's not been easy, " she smiled at Chuck and he smiled back, "sometimes it has...terrified me, but it has been real. I want to make amends—but I don't know how."

Chuck considered her empathetically.

"In the end, Sarah, we are all saved or damned together, not singly. I don't know if there's a heaven or a hell, all I know is that if there is, we are living in the foyer of one or the other right now.

"All you can do, all anyone can do, is change. Be and do better. Treat the people now in your life as you would have liked to treat those who used to be in your life. Change, and your world changes _with_ you—and at least a little _for_ the people around you. The world of the happy woman is different from the world of the unhappy woman."

"Wow. That's awfully articulate for a man who just got stabbed by a Bond girl."

Chuck laughed, but she saw the layers in his eyes again.

"Chuck, what is it? You've had something on your mind all day, something that you've been fighting with. Tell me what it is, please. It's worrying me."

Chuck pursed his lips and turned to look out the window again.

"That last letter…"

"Yes…" Sarah's voice trembled a little.

"Would you do something like that again? Would you do it now? If Graham called you and said you had to leave for a day to go and perform an assassination, would you go?"

Sarah's breath caught in her throat.

 _So is Agent Walker your cover now?_

"No, Chuck. If he called and said that, I would refuse to do it."

"But wouldn't that mean big trouble for you?"

"Well, it would mean that I would lose my job, almost certainly."

Chuck turned from the window. "Really? You'd give it up? No longer be Agent Walker?"

 _So is Agent Walker your cover now?_

Yes.

"Yes, Chuck, I would give it up. I would stop being Agent Walker, and just be Sarah Walker. I would take you and we would go, we'd run. I believe I've already made that choice, I just didn't know it, didn't know I could."

"But why?"

"Because, Chuck, I came to Burbank and I fell in love." Chuck looked at her—disbelief, a question, all in his eyes, but the layers were gone.

She got up from her chair and knelt in front of him, taking his knees in her arms and hugging herself to him.

"When I met you I crossed the Rubicon, Chuck. I can't go back to how it was before this, before us. You don't want to go back to before Tahoe. Neither do I. All my life I've been running in place while sliding backward. For the first time in my life, even if it is slow, I am moving forward, toward something worth having.

"I love you, Chuck, and that has changed, it is changing and it will keep changing me. I love you, Chuck." She dropped her head to his knees and felt him lean down and kiss her hair gently.

"I love you too, Sarah."

 _Are you planning not to hurt him?_

Yes.

She took Chuck's hand and stood. He stood too then bent over and blew out the candle. They wrapped themselves around one another on the bed and held one another in rapt silence. They fell asleep, more one body than two.

* * *

A/N2 For what it is worth, I had Roxy Music's "More Than This" in my head as I wrote the closing scene.

For those of you thinking about story architectonics, this chapter ends the second arc of the story, what I think of as the "Tahoe to Reno to Tahoe Plus Arc". So, we have had the Prologue, the first arc (Chaps 1-8) and the second (9-23). I have two more arcs planned (each shorter than the second), although, you know, _arc shmarc_ : none of these is or will be exactly a hermetically sealed unit. We'll see how things play out.

Oh! Marc vun Kannon's started a new tale. That's an event! That man can engineer a sentence.

David Carner is offering a free sugar coma to anyone who reads his new story. Hard to think of a sweeter way to go.


	25. Chapter 24: Connections

A/N Onward. Assembling neccessaries for the next arc. Thanks for everything, gentle readers.

D. O. C.

* * *

 _We can afford_

 _Top pliable males_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 17_

* * *

Beckman blew out a long, disgusted sigh.

She hated to kick someone when they were down, but: _Damn it, Graham!_ Graham was not as smart as he thought he was, but he was very good at secrets, very good at erasure.

Beckman had called a meeting of the committee that oversaw Team Bartowski shortly after Graham's collapse. As she had expected, she had been given full and immediate operational control of the team. She had also made it clear that Graham had been—well, less than forthcoming—with operational information. She was cleared to get whatever she needed from Graham's files.

The CIA screamed, but since they were scrambling to replace Graham, the screams came from too many people at levels too low to prevent Beckman from sweeping in and taking what she needed. The committee's authority carried the day. Within hours, she had all of Graham's Team Bartowski and Intersect files. It had only taken Beckman a few minutes with them to realize how far behind she was.

Graham had Intersect files that went back _years_. Beckman had thought the Intersect a relatively new technology—and perhaps in its current form, it was. Beckman laughed at herself aloud, although she was alone in her office. Maybe she'd thought that because she still thought the _Internet_ was a new technology. Getting old was a bitch: she should know, people said often enough behind her back that she was one.

Anyway, Graham had been involved with the technology from very early on. That much was clear. What was not clear was how he had initially gotten involved with it. There was no trail leading back to the origin, at least none the Beckman could find. All Beckman knew for sure was that Graham's last posting before he began to be involved with the ancestors of the Intersect was in LA. That seemed too strange to be a coincidence. Graham had been the senior agent at a CIA mission center there. But what he was doing there, who he might have known, all that Graham had managed, so far as Beckman could discover, to erase.

She might not have known he was there at all if one of her analysts had not noticed Graham's name on an old, old check-in sheet for the main LA office of the CIA. Thank God for digitized files. Graham had written his name in one box and '"Senior Agent, LA Mission Center" in another.

That was evidently the only thing Graham had forgotten to erase, and it had taken an anal-retentive, overzealous, coffee-addled analyst bucking for promotion to find it. Caffeine and ambition—they made the world go round.

She now had her best analyst team, the one that had rebuilt Agent Walker's file for her, working to reconstruct those days in LA nearly twenty years ago. Beckman had a feeling again, one she'd bet her own looming promotion on, that Bartowski was not the Intersect's first visit to Los Angeles.

If only she could figure out who had created the technology. The name 'Orion' kept popping up, but it popped up frequently enough when there were technological mysteries in the world of intelligence for the name to have become the analysts' version of 'SNAFU': when the trail went dead, when answers dried up, you'd been 'Orioned' or you'd reached 'Orion'.

End of the trail.

End of transmission.

Abandon hope.

Beckman wondered, though. Graham was arrogant, a control-freak. If he'd had anything on the people he'd worked with then, he would have kept it. Maybe he had it at home? Maybe he knew something about Orion? Beckman sighed again. She had hoped, with Graham sidelined, that she could turn Team Bartowski lose on Fulcrum, no distractions. She hadn't planned to be involved in an old mystery, digging up the roots of the Intersect's family tree.

She still had to decide what to do with the Intersect team Graham had working at the CIA, the team trying to rebuild it. For now, she'd let them work. But she was becoming more and more convinced that the Intersect was a bad idea all around. Maybe she would pull the plug on the rebuild. She'd have to think about it. The Intersect had done some good, but not because it was good, but because it had ended up in a good man.

Beckman sighed again.

She had made sure that Rose was one of Graham's attending nurses. She was the best, and she would keep her eyes and ears open. Graham was seriously delusional, talking to himself between bouts of staring at the wall. Beckman was going to have to call Marge. She hated to do it, but she had no choice. Maybe Marge would know about other places Graham kept information.

Team Bartowski had succeeded in getting the plans from Hilda Byrne. Plans for a nanotoxin, it turned out. That was a significant win, even if it didn't help with Fulcrum or with Graham. At least Fulcrum seemed to have let the pressure off for a bit. Beckman would take any break she could get.

* * *

Leader smiled. Leader liked to smile. He knew it made him more terrifying.

Jill Roberts was about to begin her real work. She had convinced Leader that the way to get to the Intersect was not by sending legions of agents out beating the bushes but was by attaching one agent—a very good one, her—to the one sure lead they had, Larkin. Beating the bushes had not been working after all, and chasing Orion (the other strategy) had been the espionage version of Pellinor chasing the Questing Beast: frustrating and fruitless. But Roberts was going to find the Intersect, take the Intersect, and no one was going to know it had happened until it was too late.

Leader smiled. _Pellinor_! Leader liked it when he made literary references. He knew it made him more terrifying.

* * *

Sarah answered her phone. She talked quietly for a couple of minutes, trying to let Chuck sleep. But he was awake and drinking her in. He didn't get to wake up with her often, and it was one of his favorite things to do. He blushed.

Almost all his favorite things to do were things that involved Sarah and a bed. When she looked over, phone still against her ear, to see if he was asleep, he gave her an embarrassed smile. It had been a while and he did not need to start thinking that way. They'd be together again soon. He hoped. Graham's collapse had perhaps changed their situation some, but not essentially.

Sarah had told him she loved him. He could live on that for a long time, maybe world without end. She'd only said it the two times, but the words had quieted him inside to a degree he had not known. Her 'I love you' was— _what was the line? that poetry class at Stanford_?—three "words spoke suddently", her 'Be still'—spoken to an inner churning of which Chuck had been mostly unaware.

He sat up. He wanted to tell her he loved her. But he did not want to seem like he was doing so to force her to say it back. As he put his feet on the floor, he was reminded of Hilda: his side burned. He pulled up his shirt and looked at the dressing. No blood. Still snugly attached; he'd been careful in the shower last night and hadn't moved much as he slept. He would be fine. But he would be reminded of her often in the next few days. Not that he needed pain reminders to jostle with the fear reminders.

Sarah ended her call.

"That was Bryce. He spent the night in Castle. If Hilda left, she did so clean, because there is no trace of her doing so. That could be because she is still here. For the next little while, Chuck, we are going to be joined at the hip."

She smiled, catching herself after she said that. Chuck laughed. As she blushed, she stammered: "I…I know that's not where we are supposed to be joined, but I guess it will have to do for a while. At least we will be together and have a reason to be together. Bryce agrees it is the best plan. He'll keep after Hilda; see if he can find a trail. Casey will take over for him in a little while."

"Ok. Never imagined I'd be on Honey Rider's _To Do List_."

"Not funny, Chuck. Say, I never got a chance to ask last night, given your wound and the search for Hilda and the news about Graham…and our talk—what exactly happened in Hilda's room? How did you get out of there?"

"I think the combat skills are coming apace. I wouldn't have lasted long against her, that much is clear. But I was…adequate for a few seconds. Long enough."

Sarah couldn't help herself: "Well, then, Honey and I have something in common: We both agree you are adequate for a few seconds. Long enough."

Chuck sighed. "White flag of truce?"

"Ok."

"We have to agree to a fair number of sex jokes a day, and we have to agree that when we are in bed together the number must be kept very small. Deal?"

He could tell she was tempted to go on as she had been. He should never have said 'small'. She tilted her head to the side, looking up at the ceiling. "Oh, ok, deal. I just don't want you forgetting about me or forgetting what we have when we are together. I'm not."

"Good God, Sarah Walker, look at you. I don't think I am about to forget you. The trouble is getting myself to think about anything else. You make my heart swell."

She looked down and at him, her quick smile carrying traces of a leer.

"Well…"

"Sarah…"

"Is a joke about a sex joke a sex joke, Chuck?"

"Sarah, the flag of truce is still up!"

The leer began to take over.

"Fine. I surrender. Do with me as you will."

"I think it is time for me to…shower."

Chuck dropped his head in his hands. Some mornings it didn't pay to get up. But there was no way he was saying that out loud.

* * *

Sarah was going to go to the Orange Orange. Chuck needed to put in time at the Buy More. They parted company in the parking lot. They were going to go to Alex's and spar after work. They were due to have dinner with Ellie and Devon after that.

Chuck wanted to get to the Chuck Pen. There were repairs, sure, but he wanted to see if he had heard from his dad. He had talked to Ellie briefly on the phone, and she said that she had not heard from him since Chuck downloaded the new files. Chuck wasn't worried, exactly. His dad was not a time-conscious sort of guy, and he was known to go down a rabbit hole and vanish for hours, days, weeks…years.

Unfortunately, Lester and Jeff were at the Nerd Herd desk and they demanded an audience.

"Chuck-o-matic," Lester began, "we know you listen to all that indie crap, but we know you are least pretend to care about music. We want your opinion." Lester drew the final word out as if each syllable were endless.

"Yeah," Jeff added, somehow excited in the midst of his omnipresent lethargy, "we need to know if you…dig our new idea."

"Dig?" Sometimes Chuck forgot that Jeff was of an indeterminate age, somewhere between the Olsen Twins and Dick Clark.

"We are…" Lester flung his arms wide as if to part the Red Sea, "…We are…Jeffster!"

Jeff gazed at Chuck, waiting for…the shock and…

"Aw, that's a sweet name, " Morgan said, adding his green polo shirt to their three white button-ups. "Sounds like the name of an off-brand drain cleaner."

Lester raged. His moment was ruined. Jeff had gotten distracted. His expression made it clear that he did not know what had distracted him if anything. Only Jeff could be distracted by nothing.

Morgan grabbed Chuck's arm and led him toward the Chuck Pen. "Those two have really gone over the edge. Jeff has been practicing keytar in the Home Theater room. It is now the _Home Theater of the Absurd_ room. When he practices, it sounds like an accordion with a spastic colon."

Chuck gave Morgan a look: "Such a beautiful instrument to have such a spastic colon."

Morgan grinned. "Thank you, Lawrence Welk, M. D."

"Say, Chuck, you have time to hang out tomorrow? Maybe go the pier and play some video games?"

"Well, not to the pier, probably. But why don't you come by the apartment? Sarah may be there, but she's got lots of Orange Orange stuff to get done—paperwork and whatnot."

"Ok. She runs a clockwork Orange Orange, doesn't she?"

"Morgan, how exactly am I supposed to answer that?"

* * *

In the Chuck Pen, after doing a couple of quick repairs, Chuck got on the computer and worked his way to the email account he used to communicate with his father. There was an email in his Inbox. He decoded it.

 _Ace,_

 _I hope the expansion pack was all we hoped. Is the on/off switch working? No timetable on that. You'll know when it happens. I imagine that 'episodes' will begin to change their character. Sis says, so far so good, as far as your checkups go. Still tied up here._

 _Miss you,_

 _Dad_

Chuck thought for about the Intersect for a minute. What had changed?

Clearly, the combat skills were developing. He was alive because he had them. He wasn't going to be joining the cage fighting circuit anytime soon. But at least he had a response to violence other than a high-pitched scream.

He had noticed a change in his flashes, but he hadn't taken the time to think about it. So much was going on. Had the flashes changed? Yes.

His flashes, like the one on Hilda Byrne, were smoother, less herky-jerky. The main thing was that they felt more like sudden realizations than alien visitations, more like remembering something than like being possessed. He could tell that his involuntary facial responses to flashing were beginning to decrease. He'd have to be careful about that.

The on/off thing was puzzling. A couple of times, when he had moments to himself, and he had few of those, he tried to shut the Intersect off. He couldn't describe what happened exactly, but it felt like trying to do something he ought to be able to do—but couldn't. Like trying to pick up a pencil when your arm was tied down. He could feel the possibility, it was tantalizingly close, but he couldn't realize it. He thought it would happen soon.

He was hopeful that he would get a chance to talk with Ellie and Sarah about it all tonight.

* * *

Rose Pritchard walked into Graham's hospital room carrying a tray. Graham was strapped to the bed.

She had met him once or twice in the past, hallway handshakes. She was surprised that he looked very much as he had on those occasions, if perhaps a little more tired. That made the straps seem stranger, more disturbing. He looked at her when she came in, and he smiled.

"Ah, Sarah, Agent Walker, you've changed your hair. It looks good. I have a mission for you, Sarah, a mission I have been looking forward to giving you for a long time. I want you to kill Bartowski. Kill him with extreme prejudice. Kill him with rancor, in a way that will ruin his sister. Do it in their apartment. I want it done wet, _wet_ , do you understand me. He has to pay. They _all_ have to pay! You are my enforcer! You will obey!"

Rose knew Graham's chart; she'd consulted with the doctor. She had her orders. She put her tray down and picked up a needle. With practiced speed, she filled it and then administered the sedative to Graham. He began to calm down, but his eyes also lost focus. As he slumped, he muttered. "I was Alpha; I was to see Omega."

* * *

By the time they got to Chuck's apartment, Chuck and Sarah were both starving. A long day followed by an extended sparing session had built up their appetites.

Chuck felt a little self-conscious around Sarah all day because she was obviously worried about Hilda. There was no sign of Hilda, no indication of whether she was in town or not. Sarah kept checking sight lines, subtly moving Chuck left or right or back or forward, stationing him where she felt he was least vulnerable. Standing in between him and any place she thought a gun might be.

It was both endearing and a skoosh patronizing at the same time. But Chuck knew she knew her job. She had told him, maybe partly as an apology and explanation, that she had worked a year on the White House security detail. Chuck's mouth hung open. She closed it for him by leaning in for a kiss. Chuck was impressed, as always, with her. She was capable of so much, knew so much. So he let her move him around like a director setting a scene. But he was glad when they got into the apartment.

Devon had the table set. Candles, wine, and Chuck and Ellie's mom's wedding china…he had gone all out. The smell of Ellie's pot roast filled the air. Ellie hugged them both, and then Devon did too. She seemed surprised by the table. She'd been cooking, evidently, and hadn't realized how fancy Devon had made things. She looked and Chuck and shrugged.

Chuck wasn't sure why, but the atmosphere in the apartment seemed heavy, charged. Chuck wondered if Ellie was angry with him. He knew that she loathed not being able to tell Devon what she and Chuck were doing. But Chuck had, from the beginning, pleaded with her to wait, and she had. Maybe she was going to choose tonight to tell Devon the whole story. Chuck wanted Devon to know. He felt guilty about keeping Devon in the dark. But Devon was not honest as the best policy; he was simply incapable of falsehood. If he knew, he would tell. He would mean no harm, but he would. How would Sarah react to that? She'd taken Ellie knowing well enough, but how far would she let this go? How much had her relationship with her job changed?

But Ellie had said nothing to Devon about Team Bartowski. She seemed at ease throughout what was a very pleasant, very funny dinner. Chuck could not think of a time when the fact that Sarah was an honorary Bartowski was more apparent. She talked at dinner, made fun of Awesome (even called him Captain Awesome at one point), told in-jokes with Ellie, mostly at Chuck's expense. Ellie had insisted on telling stories of Chuck and Morgan in high school, a sure repository of humiliating moments. As dinner ended, Chuck finally realized that the cause of the atmosphere was Devon, not Ellie.

Devon started to speak at the moment this dawned on Chuck.

"Chuck, Sarah, I'm so glad you are here. I wanted to share this moment with you. I know my timing isn't great, because…well…Ellie told me a little about Reno," Devon looked at Ellie who nodded while looking a bit lost, "but I just can't wait anymore."

Devon got down on one knee beside Ellie's chair, and Chuck heard both women gasp at the same time.

"Ellie Bartowski, you are the smartest, most amazing person I know. You are a beautiful woman. You are my best friend. I want to call you my wife. Ellie, will you marry me?" Devon pulled a small velvet box from his pocket and tilted its top back, revealing a stunning engagement ring. In the silence that followed, he added, to fill the dead air, "The ring was my grandmother's."

After a minute, Ellie literally tackled Devon, and they crashed together onto the floor. A high-pitched squeal from Ellie filled the room, the apartment, the block, the city, all of available space, really. "Yes!"

Chuck leaped up and helped them to their feet. Ellie was trying to put on the ring as Chuck helped her up, so they went through a couple of seconds of a vaudeville routine before she was on her feet. Chuck hugged her. He hugged Devon. Devon broke the hug: "Thanks, bro, and I mean the 'bro'." He shook Chuck's hand. "You approve, Chuck, you know, in _loco parentis_?"

Chuck grinned big. "More _loco_ , than _parentis_ , but absolutely, Awesome! How many guys get to welcome a superhero into the family?" He pulled Devon into another hug. He turned around to celebrate with Sarah, to pull her into the round of hugs, when he realized that her chair was empty, and the apartment door was standing open.

* * *

Chuck hurried through the door. He found Sarah outside, looking in at the scene from the window. She had tears on her cheeks. "I'm sorry about Reno, Chuck. I am so sorry I ruined our moment. I didn't want to ruin theirs."

"Sarah, you didn't ruin anything. The only person to blame for Reno, other than the person who came up with the name 'Union Station', is me. Uh, I. 'Me', 'I'? I never get that right. Sorry, spiraling." Sarah waited for him to continue.

"My heart got way, way out in front of my head. You know me, Sarah, I trust my heart more than my head—but in Reno, I went too far in that direction. I now think that maybe it was a beginning disguised as an ending, that it forced us both to face some things.

"I kept the ring, Sarah, like you said. I don't think of that proposal as over, just as _in a rain delay_. I hope to resume it…someday. With the very same woman." Sarah brushed away her tears.

"Ok, Chuck. Let's get inside. I don't want to rain on their parade." Her smile started weakly but gained strength.

She grabbed Chuck and led him back into the apartment, where the round of hugs resumed.

* * *

After a while, after a lot more happy talk, Devon took his phone and went to the bedroom. He wanted to call his parents, his grandmother, everyone. Ellie and Sarah sat down on the couch in happy exhaustion. Chuck sat in the chair.

"So, Chuck, how are you doing? You keep telling me you're ok. Is that right? Any glitches with the… _you know_?"

"No, no glitches. Some changes, but they all seem good so I have waited to talk about them until things slowed down."

"When do things ever slow down for us, little brother?"

"True."

"Sarah, are you ok? I told Devon about Reno—as you now know. He wondered what was wrong. But I told him in only in the most general terms. He knows nothing about the…" Ellie mouthed the letters 'C', 'I' and 'A'.

Sarah laughed gently. "Ok. Look, Chuck and I are sorry to be asking you to keep this from Devon…"

Ellie broke in. "It's ok, but I will have to tell him eventually, you know that, right?"

"Yes, we know that, " Sarah said reassuringly. Chuck nodded his head. "Team Bartowski is now under the control of General Beckman. Graham has had a mental breakdown."

Ellie looked shocked. She put her wine glass on the table. "A mental breakdown? The CIA Intersect guy has had a mental breakdown? Doesn't that strike you two as…well, oddly coincidental? It could be a coincidence, of course. Anyway, it's weird."

Chuck looked at Sarah and she looked back. Neither of them had thought about it, really; they'd had Hilda on their mind, and their…talk last night. _It was odd. Weird. Maybe a coincidence?_

Ellie changed her tone. "Chuck, come and see me tomorrow. Let's talk in detail about these good changes. Sarah, are you sure you are ok? I think Devon was incredibly nervous to ask me, and also incredibly nervous to ask in front of you, but he didn't want to wait I guess and I know he wanted you to be here."

"I'm glad I was, Ellie. Any plans for the wedding?"

"No, no definite plans. But three definite demands: One, we aren't going to wait around. We've been together a long time. We make plenty of money. There's no reason for us not to start our married lives together _a.s._ a.p. Two, we get married on the beach, on that spot that matters to me and Chuck, the spot we used to go to when we were especially down after our parents left. Has Chuck ever taken you there?"

Sarah looked at him and then glanced down at her hands. "We've…I've been there, yes."

"Good. Three, you will be my maid of honor."

Sarah's head lifted. Gleams bounced from Sarah's smile all around the apartment.


	26. Chapter 25: Of Headache and Heartache

A/N Here we go again. Thanks, everyone, for reading, reviewing and PMing. For someone learning how to write fiction, as I am, it's wonderful to get so much real-time response.

I am going to take a couple of days off and finish grading. No new installment before Thursday.

Don't own Chuck or any products mentioned. No money made. Story of my life.

* * *

Chapter 25 Of Headache and Heartache

* * *

 _The name of the day is Doom. But first a word from our sponsor..._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace, Epilogue_

* * *

Chuck leaned in Ellie's open lab door. "Knock, knock!"

Ellie greeted Chuck with a big, big smile and waved him in.

"Hey, El, I have the day off, but I'm supposed to play video games with Morgan later. So, I was hoping we could talk a bit now. Devon wanted me to talk _Best Man_ with him, and I just finished that up. You have a few minutes?"

"Sure. Devon told me he was going to ask you. I'm so pleased, Chuck. I'm just so _happy,_ even with all the craziness in my life. How about you, Chuck, how are you?"

Chuck took stock for a moment. "I'm good, genuinely good. Sarah told me she loves me." Chuck braced for a squeal, but instead, Ellie took his face in her hands and looked directly into his eyes. "That's wonderful! You are so lovable; it was just a matter of time. That woman is no fool, even if she moves with a certain glacial celerity."

"Huh? Glacial _celerity_?"

Ellie grinned playfully. "It's from my Word of the Day app. Have you ever thought about how much words are like playground equipment, there to be seesawed on, crawled through, ridden merrily round and round, climbed up and slid down?"

"Ah, I don't know…Maybe."

"And nonsense! Isn't it wonderful? Lewis Carroll, Ogden Nash, James Joyce? 'Words taste like peaches'. I made that up today. Isn't that great?"

Chuck knew that she hadn't made that up just now, today. She didn't remember when she made it up. She had never remembered what happened that night exactly. But there was no reason to insert any shadow into all this noontide sunshine. "Wow. You have a…unique response to getting engaged, Ellie."

"I'm just happy, Chuck, really happy." She smiled and hugged him. He hugged her back. "Chuck, everything seems charged with extra significance today—even nonsense! Everything just makes sense!"

"Well, let's talk the I-word, sis." Ellie kept her smile and nodded.

Chuck told her about how things had been going. The onset of the combat skills, the smoother flashes, the sense that the on/off capability was imminent.

"Yes," Ellie said after listening and asking a couple of questions about the last. "I imagine at first there will be a sense of _mental trying_. Eventually, you won't just try to do it but you will do it. And then not long after that, you will no longer have any sense of trying. You won't have to try. It will just happen."

"There is no try, there is only do or do not!" Chuck said in a lilting, squeaky voice. Ellie, with the practiced perfection of a big sister, ignored him.

"I will be curious what it is like when you turn it off. Whether you have any felt changes. Pay attention so you can give me a report. What's Sarah doing during the evening of Morgan?"

"She has some paperwork to do. I think she's planning to do it at our apartment."

"Good, then I should see her. I will be home at dinner time."

"We're ordering pizza."

"That sounds good. See you then, Chuck."

* * *

Beckman was standing on the porch of Graham's DC home in the midmorning cold. She had two DC-based NSA field agents with her, men she trusted.

She had drinks with Marge last night, and Marge gave the key to the house and permission to go in. Marge herself had not been to the house. She was finding the whole ordeal painful. Seeing Graham in the hospital had almost undone her. She had, in effect, moved out months ago anyway, so there was no need to go to the house. Graham had no pets. Graham had no plants.

Once inside, Beckman realized that what Graham did have was…aspirin.

There were bottles on almost every flat surface in the house. Dozens and dozens of bottles. Aspirin spilled out onto counters, aspirin spilled on coffee tables, aspirin spilled onto the floor, crushed into the carpet, aspirin dotting the sheets of Graham's dirty, rumpled, unmade bed. It was like a weird indoor hailstorm had occurred.

A hell storm.

The house was strangely empty, achingly hollow. Graham had clearly changed nothing after Marge left him. There were blank spots all over the house where her things had been; the house itself was a blank spot where she had been.

Beckman had talked quite a bit to Marge. Marge did not know of any safe or hiding place in the house, but it was a big house and Graham was good at secrets. The two agents began a systematic search of the house.

Beckman walked through it all, profoundly disturbed by it. It was a Temple of Headache and Heartache; it was sad and full of pain.

She stopped in Graham's library. She rummaged through his desk, noticing that a picture of Marge was in a drawer, and realizing that she had seen no other pictures of Marge anywhere in the house. She saw nothing else that looked interesting. The two agents could look more carefully when they made it to the room.

She turned and looked at the wall of books behind the desk. She had forgotten that Graham was a bit of a collector. She ran her hand along a couple of the shelves, noting titles: mostly histories, a few biographies, and a variety of bibles.

She stopped with her finger on a large, old, heavy bible: she recognized it. It was a very early copy of the King James Bible. She recalled Rose telling her about Graham's bizarre Alpha and Omega remark. It had stuck with Beckman because, although she knew the verse in _Revelations_ , of course, it had never struck her (until she heard Rose report it), that the verse sounded like it contained two code names, spy terms.

She pulled the heavy book off the shelf and put it on Graham's desk. She opened it and turned the pages carefully until she reached nearly the end. She frowned to herself, involuntarily recalling D. H. Lawrence's comment that there were two kinds of Christians, Gospel Christians, and Revelations Christians.

Beckman had known both kinds. She strongly preferred the first.

When she got to the 22nd chapter of _Revelations_ , she knew her hunch had paid off. There, stitched into the binding of the book, was a small white page of India paper, distinct against the yellowed pages of the bible proper. The page was covered in Graham's neat handwriting. Beckman did not try to read it yet. She flipped the page. Another insert of India paper—and again, and again, and again.

She did not try to count them. She turned back to the first. It was in some kind of code. Beckman shut the book and carried it from the house to her car. She left the agents to continue their task. She was sure she had what she came for.

Beckman was driving home with the bible when her phone rang: Rose. She smiled and answered. Rose's tone flipped Beckman's smile over.

"Aunt Becky, Graham is gone. No one knows where, no one knows how. The staff went in with breakfast, and he was gone. The hospital has been thoroughly searched. He isn't here. He talked to me for a while last night. He still thought I was Agent Walker."

Beckman changed direction from her office to the hospital. "I'll be there soon, Rose. Keep that conversation with him to yourself."

* * *

Bryce was unhappy. He had scoured every source, checked flight logs, bus passenger lists, rental car companies, Uber and Lyft, nothing. Hilda was either gone or invisible. Casey had checked too: nothing.

Adding to Bryce's unhappiness was the fact that Jill had left earlier on an unexpected business trip. Work. She thought she'd be gone two or three days. Bryce already felt anxious and itchy knowing she was gone. He liked her to be around, at least liked knowing that he could see her at the end of the day. He'd barely slept in his apartment since moving in. In fact, he had probably spent more nights in Castle than there.

He couldn't tell if it was frustration with the search for Hilda or if it was disappointment that Jill was gone, but he couldn't seem to keep his mind on his task. After a few minutes, he would drift into a reverie, usually, one that was a memory of a recent night with Jill. He would begin to burn for her, to see her. He knew, he thought, what was happening.

He was in love with Jill Roberts. He'd never spoken that word to a woman when he thought there was any chance she'd believe it. He'd probably spoken it only a few times, period. But the word 'love' kept cropping up in his thoughts when they turned to Jill, and in his thoughts when he had Jill in his arms. It was all he could do not to say it to her.

Here he was, a grown man, a spy, once one of the best, in a sloppy, sticky kind of love with a woman he really only slept with. It wasn't even clear that they were really a couple. They had yet to go out on a date. That was, Bryce admitted, his fault. He was worried about Graham realizing that he was not with Walker. But now that Graham was not running the team, Bryce sensed an opening. Maybe he could pursue a relationship with Jill in a more normal way; maybe he could actually hope to build a life with her? He was excited to ask her out. He felt like he had back in high school, the first time he ever asked a girl to go out with him.

He liked this feeling, even if it was sloppy and sticky. He'd been empty a long time. Where could he take her? He'd asked Chuck about restaurants in the area. Chuck had recommended a Mexican place. Maybe that's where he'd take Jill on their first date.

* * *

Sarah was surprising herself. She was getting work done, mostly CIA paperwork that had been building up. She had been getting work done while Chuck and Morgan were playing video games at high volume, laughing and yelling, and trash talking like crazy. She grinned at them and at herself. Being there in his apartment, being there with Morgan, even; it felt right. She had been so tense since the Hilda mission started. She had remained so because she feared Hilda somehow finding Chuck and retaliating. But here they were, in the apartment. Working and gaming. Casey was next door. She could relax a little.

* * *

She had told Chuck she loved him!

She had said the words. She did not regret one of them. He had not said he loved her since he said it back. She knew he was trying to go at her pace, trying not to make her feel like she owed him the words because he had given them to her. But now that she was relaxing a bit, she knew that what she most wanted to do was say those words to him again, maybe several times. Each time she said them the other night, they sounded like 'Hello', not 'Goodbye'. She hugged herself, happy in the memory. When Morgan left, she was going to say those words again.

She wanted to say them to Chuck _again_. Sarah now understood that those words were hard to say and precious to say because they were not simply a self-report—"I have blond hair", "My elbow itches"—no, the words were a commitment: when said and meant, and she meant them when she said them to Chuck, they were a speaking-into-reality of a bond. Saying "I love you" was, maybe, as close as a human being could get to saying, "Let there be light".

She knew she still had to work out what her commitment to Chuck and his to her would look like, but she knew it was real. She now trusted herself enough to make it. She shuffled the CIA paperwork to the side and got the piece of stationery she had brought with her. It was time to write another letter. She dreaded it, but she knew she still had to do it. At least she was not as anxious about Chuck's response. And this might be the final letter. She would see how she felt when it was written and when it had been read.

* * *

Sarah finished the letter and put it in her bag. She'd give it to Chuck later.

There was a knock at the door. The pizza.

Chuck got up to answer the door and stopped when he realized he did not have his wallet. Morgan took advantage of the break to head down the hall to the bathroom. Sarah felt rather than heard Morgan stop in the hallway. She then heard him gasp. She grabbed her gun in her bag and she slipped underneath the table. The front door exploded off its hinges as she did. Dee and Dum tumbled in, carried by their momentum against the door. They smashed into Chuck without even seeing him, and the three went down in a confused and confusing heap. Sarah slid to the other side of the table, her gun pointed at Dee and Dum and Chuck—all three at once, too tangled up to be targeted separately.

"Put it down, _little girl_." Sarah felt a stab of cold. She turned and saw Hilda locked around Morgan, her knife against his throat. "Kind of you to leave that window unlocked."

Chuck, finally disentangled from Dee and Dum, shot Sarah a look of frightened apology.

Sarah very slowly began to lower her gun. Where was Casey? Dee and Dum had been about as stealthy as stampeding cattle. Casey? She continued to slowly lower her gun. Casey? Dee and Dum each had a hand on Chuck. Casey wasn't coming.

Sarah finally put her gun on the back of the couch. Dee and Dum stood, pulling Chuck up with them.

Hilda chuckled delightedly. "Two—no, three—for the price of one. I really just wanted to make sure that I got a chance to settle accounts with…Charles. But now it looks like I get to do more than that."

Hilda smiled the same victory smile she smiled at the hotel bar. "You know, I had a feeling after I…lost Charles that there was something between the two of you."

"Give it up, Hilda. This place is under constant surveillance. You'll never get out of here alive."

"Oh, I will get out of here alive, and I will get out of here alive with Charles. I will take him someplace…private…and finish what we started. But this time, I will be sure it ends the way snuff films end—a _big_ finish (for me) and a big _finish_ (for him). It's all a matter of emphasis, _little girl_."

* * *

Sarah felt an icy hand squeeze her heart, making it ache dully. But it did not freeze her, immobilize her. It mobilized her; she transfigured into what Graham sometimes liked to call her, what other agents sometimes liked to call her, _The Ice Queen_. She hated that name.

But she was prepared to do whatever was necessary to finish Hilda, to save Chuck and Morgan.

"Listen, you has-been hag, I _am_ you, just younger and more beautiful. And, I suspect," Sarah glanced at Chuck and slowly and obviously licked her lips, "much, much more limber." She leered at Chuck through her freshly moistened lips, and she saw him gulp. "I am your replacement, Hilda. It's time for you to retire. And I am going to _retire_ you. It's a matter of emphasis, _grandma_."

Sarah spoke slowly and distinctly. Hilda, despite her attempt to remain unmoved, acknowledged the enormity of the threat that Sarah represented. She knew a dangerous woman when she saw one. Hilda tightened her grip on Morgan.

Sarah made eye contact with Morgan as Hilda did so, and, instead of finding terror in Morgan's eyes, she found…defiance. He was trying to make her understand: he was going to try to free himself. Before she could signal him 'No', Morgan twisted violently and ducked down.

Hilda was so engrossed in Sarah's threat that she did not anticipate Morgan's desperate gambit. He was out of her arms and running before she knew what had happened. Morgan flung himself into Dee. Ordinarily, Morgan would have bounced off Dee like a tennis ball off a wall. But Chuck twisted between Dee and Dum and pulled Dee off balance. Morgan was just enough—the straw that tipped the camel over. Dee went down. Chuck spun and kicked Dum in the abdomen.

Sarah launched herself at Hilda, blocking her knife thrust as she reached her. As they fell, Sarah forced Hilda's knife had away from them. As they went down, Hilda's hand struck the hallway wall and she lost her grip on the knife.

Morgan jumped atop Dee and began to flail at his face. Chuck's kick had doubled Dum over. Morgan was yelling at the top of his lungs, but he didn't seem to be yelling words, just yelling. "Yawp, Yawp, Yawp!" Chuck hurdled the coffee table and lunged for Sarah's gun.

Sarah heard the knife hit the hallway floor just as she heard the expulsion of breath from Hilda as Hilda's back hit the floor. Sarah got her legs around Hilda before Hilda could recover from the crash. Sarah saw the knife, and her arm shot out like a lightning flash. Hilda grabbed Sarah's arm. Holding it, she struck Sarah savagely across the face. Sarah caught the arm that delivered the blow.

Hilda brought her head up as she tried to wrestle free. Sarah head-butted her with all the power she could manage. Hilda went limp. Sarah felt the blood run down her forehead. The blow had broken the skin. Her head was already hurting, hurting immediately. She hoped Chuck had some aspirin.

Behind her, she heard Chuck say, in Carmichael's voice (the voice from Hilda's room). "Don't move or I'll shoot." Sarah got up and walked unsteadily into the living room. Blood covered her face. She had Hilda's knife in her hand; she'd kept it as she stood.

Morgan looked at her bloody face and the knife in her hand; he looked at Chuck with a gun trained on Dee and Dum. "Holy Xenia Onatopp, what the hell is going on?"


	27. Chapter 26: Readings-In

A/N Some timeline jumps. A couple of slightly more complicated in-scene structures. I hope the italics help, despite their typographical homeliness.

I'm catching up with responses to reviews and PMs. Grading is done. It was less time-consuming than I anticipated. Obviously, I had time to scribble a little today. Now, there is nothing but the guitar, some Dickens and _this here story_ to occupy me for a while. Thanks for everything, everybody.

Don't Own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 26 Readings-In

* * *

 _A seer interprets the ministry of the stars, the broken gear of a bird._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 2_

* * *

Jill had not left town.

Rather, Bryce had responded to his treatments sooner than she had dared hope. She'd implanted the idea that she had left town, mainly as a test, and to keep him away from her apartment for a few days. She'd give Bryce his real mission later.

Jill was sitting over coffee in Lou's Deli, hungrily watching the doorway of the doorway of the Buy More. She was wearing a hat and had her hair tucked up into it. She had on a pair of glasses unlike her typical ones. Jill started humming to herself, drumming her fingers on the table lightly and merrily. She was going to see Chuck Bartowski again—and Chuck Bartowski was the Intersect. She felt like the cosmos was revolving just for her, bringing all this about so as to make her…happy.

She had put in an in-home installation call to the Buy More. She had asked for Chuck specifically. Soon, he would be at work; soon after that, he would leave for her apartment. She would leave after he arrived at work so that she would be sure to be at her apartment before him. She'd given the strange man who took the call (was _Jeff_ his name?) the wrong apartment number, the number of the apartment a few doors down. That way, she assured herself of a little extra time to get ready. She would know he was there before he was knocking on her door. That apartment belonged to a paranoid woman who hated salesmen and yelled at them without fail. She'd serve as Jill's alarm.

Jill could have just waited at home, she knew. There was no reason to take the chance of coming out into public. But she was too excited to wait at home. She wanted to see him, to see Chuck.

This was going to work. Chuck Bartowski doing an in-home install for Jill Roberts. The Intersect servicing Fulcrum's best spy.

Life was full of surprises. Delicious surprises.

 _Jill had put her robe on the other night after having sex with Bryce, and knotted the belt of it around her, planning to watch some TV. She'd supplemented Bryce's programming and he had rolled over to stare at the wall, as he normally did after supplementation._

 _But she had not been in the other room long enough to turn the TV on before Bryce walked in…_ sleepwalked _in. He was somnambulant—Jill had expected that to happen in a few more nights, not that night._

 _She was puzzled at first, even wary. Had Bryce figured out what was happening somehow? Was he pretending?_

 _How would he know what to pretend? Jill eventually decided it was real._

 _Bryce was finally ready to be debriefed and reprogrammed. Why had it happened so fast? Jill wasn't sure, but she wasn't about to turn down a bit of luck._

 _Luck loved skill, as Leader was fond of saying. She thought of Leader's smile and shuddered involuntarily._

 _She walked Bryce to the love seat in front of the TV and sat him down. She sat down beside him._

 _"Bryce Larkin: who are you?"_

 _"A double-agent. I work for Fulcrum by working for the CIA."_

 _"Very good. How long have you been a double-agent?"_

 _"I…cannot remember a time when I was not a double-agent."_

 _"Very, very good."_

 _"What is your current assignment?"_

 _"I am the leader of the Intersect Team in Burbank, California."_

 _She had told Leader it would work out this way. Her smile grew huge and greedy. This was going to mean…power...for her. If things were to continue to go so well, she'd feed Leader that stupid smile of his, feed it to him with a pistol-whipping, a pistol-whipping that would be the last thing he ever remembered._

 _"Very good, Bryce. And has the Intersect been successfully downloaded by an agent?"_

 _"No."_

 _Jill's smile disappeared. Then she realized her mistake._

 _"Has the Intersect been successfully downloaded by a person?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"Who? What is the person's name?"_

 _"You know his name, Agent Roberts."_

 _Jill's eyes widened. In a breathless leap of intuition, she knew._

 _"Who is it, Bryce?"_

 _"Your old boyfriend and my old friend, Chuck Bartowski."_

 _Jill's gasped despite her intuition. "Chuck Bartowski?"_

 _"Yes. He is the Intersect."_

 _Jill felt her heart beat fast._ Chuck Bartowsk _i?_ Her _Chuck?_

 _She made herself calm down. She waited for her breathing to resume, her heart rate to decrease._

 _"Tell me about this Team you lead, Bryce."_

 _Bryce told her quickly, efficiently and fully. In about thirty minutes, after a few final questions, she knew all that Bryce knew. Graham and Beckman, Agents Walker and Casey, Castle. Chuck._

 _"Is there anything else relevant to you or to the Team I need to know, Bryce?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"What is it, Bryce?"_

 _"I love you, Jill."_

 _Jill groaned. Bryce was still in his programmable state, but she couldn't use the program to do anything about that emotion. The emotion might cause complications. Jill certainly hadn't expected Bryce Larkin to fall in love. She'd just have to take her chances._

 _She had glanced through her bedroom door to her bed. Sometimes, she was just too good at her job._

Chuck had just arrived at work. She waited to see if anyone reacted to his arrival. No, no one did. It was time for her to leave for her apartment. This was going to be more...rewarding than she had dared to imagine.

* * *

While Morgan waited for an answer to his question, Chuck, careful to keep the gun trained on Dee and Dum, reached down into the side of the couch and pulled out a tranq gun. Without comment or ceremony, he handed Sarah's gun to Morgan.

Morgan's eyes went wide, but he took the gun and kept it trained on the two men as Chuck had. Morgan held the gun steady. Chuck calmly shot both men with the tranq gun, then walked down the hall. As he passed Sarah, he took a handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her. "It's clean," he said softly as he shot Hilda.

He went into the bathroom and Sarah heard water running. He came out toweling off his face with one hand, and with a warm, wet cloth in the other. He returned to Sarah and began very gently to wipe her face with the cloth. She could see that his lips were trembling, and when she reached out for his hand, it was too.

"I'm going to check on Casey, " he said. Sarah started to protest but Chuck stopped her.

"Morgan, help Sarah. She needs to sit down. You know where the first aid kit is. I'll be right back." Chuck finished wiping off her face, and his eyes left hers to look at the cut on her forehead. He smiled: "It's not bad. How're you feeling?" His touch and his tone combined with all that happened made Sarah's legs rubbery.

"I'll be ok." She smiled at him despite the fact that it made her eyes water to do so. Morgan took her hand from Chuck's and tugged her toward the couch.

When she sat down, Morgan handed her the gun. She took it and looked at him. Earlier, in Hilda's grasp, his gaze had been defiant. Now, although it was soft around the edges, his gaze was frightened. He was afraid—of her. She was self-conscious about the gun.

Chuck had left the apartment. Morgan seemed to want her to say something, but she could not think of anything to say. He waited for a moment then got up, took Chuck's handkerchief from her, and went to the kitchen. He came back with a bandage, a glass of water and a few aspirin. She took the glass and the aspirin; she swallowed the aspirin and chased it with water. She smiled tightly.

"Morgan, I…"

He held up a hand to stop her. "It's ok, _Sarah_ …if 'Sarah' is your name."

He looked at her. She hitched in her response, too rattled to control herself completely.

"Thought so."

"I…uh…I am a CIA agent." She was holding her hand gently to her forehead.

"Yeah, kinda figured it was something like that. Look, we can talk about all that later. Right now, while Chuck's gone, I only want to know one thing."

Sarah looked at him, waiting.

"Do you actually…love Chuck, or is this all some kind of act, part of some _cover_?"

Sarah gasped. "Morgan, why would you ask me that?"

"Because I saw you change a minute ago. We were here, hanging out, you were…Sarah. We were going to have pizza. Then all hell broke loose. And in the middle of that hell, you turned to ice— _you_ were scarier than that…Xenia woman. I could feel her fear, her fear of you." Morgan gestured toward the hall. "Of course, later, the bloody face and knife added to that impression." Morgan returned Sarah's earlier tight smile.

Morgan moved her hand. He looked at her wound. His reaction told Sarah it was not serious. He opened the bandage and carefully applied it to her forehead.

"Who are you, Sarah Walker, or whatever your name is, if you can become _that_? How is Chuck, how is anyone, supposed to believe you, believe _in_ you?" He was asking for Chuck; he was also asking for himself.

Before Sarah could answer, Chuck ran back in, relief on his face.

"Casey is ok. They knocked him out with a tranquilizer. They didn't want to alert us that…" Chuck noticed that Morgan and Sarah were locked in an intense exchange. "…uh, anyway, he called Bryce. A team will be here soon to take these three to Castle. They'll be out for a while. Casey's sort of awake, but I need to go back…"

Sarah nodded. "It's ok, Chuck. Make sure Casey doesn't try to move around much at first. He should know the drill, but he's likely to be stubborn. Make him drink some water."

Chuck promised to take care of it and went back out the door.

Morgan got up and walked over to look down at Dee and Dum. He turned back to Sarah. She returned his gaze, her eyes soft, her mouth a thin line of ache, physical and emotional. Morgan spoke again but in a retreating tone.

"I guess I have an idea now why you two have never seemed like a normal couple. And I guess I know why Chuck's not been around as much anymore, and why he seems either anxious or exhausted or both…"

"We'll explain it all to you after he gets back and we get all this sorted, Morgan, I promise."

"Ok…good."

"Morgan?"

"Yeah, Sarah?"

"I love Chuck. I do. The transformation you saw was _because_ I love him. I wasn't going to let anything happen to him, or to you. But, look, don't say anything about how we feel about each other. Not everyone who works with us knows it."

Morgan buttoned his lips. "So, you really love our boy?"

"He's _my_ Chuck! And he loves me." Sarah's smile was wide and spontaneous and defiant, although shortened in duration by pain from her head.

"Well, then, Sarah-but-not-really-Sarah-but-I-don't–really-care, I couldn't be happier! I always knew Chuck would end up with someone like you, someone _amazing_ , not with someone humdrum, like that skank, Jill Roberts."

"Are you really afraid of me, Morgan?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Ok, just checking."

"And this is me _just checking_ : Chuck knows what you can do and he still shares a bed with you?"

"Yes. As often as we can manage, anyway." Sarah's grin was slightly embarrassed.

"Wow." Morgan smiled a full Morgan smile. He got that look on his face she knew he normally reserved for Princess Leia or for sizzling shrimp. "Wow. Sorry, I just…ah…I keep calling you 'Sarah' right?"

"Right."

"Good to meet you, Agent...Sarah."

* * *

Beckman had called Rose back and asked if she could pick her up at the hospital. They could go somewhere and have lunch and talk. Rose agreed.

Beckman pulled her car through the parking lot to the sidewalk where Rose was standing, waiting. Rose's resemblance to Walker was pronounced, in part because Rose was bundled up in a black jacket cut much like a trench coat. Beckman chided herself for giving in to a spy cliché.

Rose's resemblance to Walker had been of use with Larkin. Given his reactions to Rose, Beckman had expected Larkin to put the full-court press on Walker. It seemed, from what Casey had told her privately, that Larkin may have tried, but Walker rebuffed him. Yes, that woman was in love with Bartowski. Beckman still was willing to bet they'd eventually end up back at Union Station.

But Beckman had not thought about how Rose's resemblance to Walker might affect Graham. She had just wanted Rose's reports on Graham. How she had failed to expect that the resemblance would affect Graham she didn't know. Everyone had bad moments. Beckman stopped at the curb and Rose got in.

"Hey, Aunt Becky!"

"Hello, Rose! Are you in? Good." Beckman pulled away from the curb and through the parking lot. She waited until she had rejoined traffic on the road to continue. "How's your husband?"

"He's good. Life at CUA is tricky for him. As you know, Mark has a dual appointment in philosophy and anthropology, and he's constantly pulled back and forth by the faculties. The philosophers do not understand the anthropologists and the anthropologists do not understand the philosophers. Typical academic crap. Too smart for their own good, everyone with egos the size of barns, each thinking his or her discipline should somehow structure the entire university."

Beckman chuckled. Sounded like a version of every human institution. The trail of the human serpent is over everything, as William James once said. "But, that aside, his classes, his writing?"

"Mark's a gifted teacher, as you know, so that's all good. He _is_ writing. That makes him happy."

"That's good. Give him my best when you see him tonight. And remind him—I would make a _great_ great-aunt. You two need to get down to business."

Beckman pulled into a parking spot outside the sandwich shop as Rose rolled her eyes. Then she looked at Beckman with deep seriousness. "We are trying, you know. It just hasn't happened yet." Beckman reached over and took Rose's hand. "It will, sweet girl, it will. And isn't it nice that the trying part is its own reward? Don't forget that. Don't ever make being with Mark into a mere means. Remember you love him. Make love to your husband. Hope for a child. Don't make love to him in order to get pregnant." Rose blushed and they got out of the car.

"You've always been direct, Aunt Becky. And bossy. So, in the same spirit," Rose offered a minute later, as they got to the door of the shop, "has Uncle Roan been _in town_ lately?" It was Beckman's turn to blush.

They got a table. "No, Uncle Roan is…out west. But I hope to see him soon."

The waiter was prompt and each woman knew what she wanted, so the ordering was over quickly. The waiter brought them both coffees and promised to return soon with food.

"So, tell me about Graham. About last night's conversation."

Rose looked at her coffee cup. She sighed.

"It was very strange." She reached into an interior pocket of her jacket, draped on the chair she was seated in. "I made some notes. I will give you this paper when we finish. I made no copies. Ok, let me see.

"I came into the room and Graham was asleep. Or so I thought. I ran some normal checks and was making notes on his chart when he spoke my name, or rather, Walker's name."

* * *

 _Agent Walker? Is that you? How did you get to DC?_

I did not respond, but he went on.

 _You know, I did it all to you so that you would be the one, the perfect host for the perfected Intersect. I trained you. I trained you well._

 _I needed someone young._

 _I needed someone raised the right way._

 _I needed someone who knew that emotions are a weakness._

 _I needed someone who compartmentalized naturally and who it would be easy to habituate to more._

 _You, Agent Walker, fell into my lap. You're your father's daughter._

 _You were so much more than I anticipated, so much more than I dreamed. I reinforced all your…advantages. I made sure you developed no ties, not to people, not to places. I kept you from a stable identity, switching always from cover to cover. I gave you Larkin so I could keep tabs on both of you and because I knew neither of you would ever put the other above the mission; you were mirror images of each other. He'd never give you what you needed to resist my kneading. And I kneaded you…_

 _I pushed you hard on everything. All the time. I risked you over and over to make you hard, efficient, and deadly. A few more weeks, maybe a month, and…_

 _Then Fulcrum screwed it all up, Fulcrum and Larkin. And I made a mistake allowing Ryker to handle you, to use you on that mission; I see that now. I did not think that through. But my head was hurting so much by then, and Marge was threatening to leave me. Marge, my lovely, tiny Marge._

 _Once you had the Intersect, you would not only have been my perfect enforcer, my perfect Ice Queen, you would have become my daughter, really. We would have shared DNA, as it were. Marge and I could not have kids of our own. Did I ever tell you that, Agent Walker? We tried and tried. Never happened. Uhhh…God, my head._

 _I was so close, Walker. So close to getting you to your destiny, and me to mine._

 _Oh, Lord, my head hurts so. I used to be able to manage it…It only hurt a little to look at things I loved. Now, it hurts so much…Can't look at Marge. She thought I stopped loving her. No. Uhhh. I just stopped looking at her. It hurt too much…Bartowski. Damn him! Uhhh!_

 _Marge, do you know what it is like when love hurts…so much? When your eyes won't do what your heart wants? Marge, my delicate beauty! Marge?_

 _Love's not blind, Marge, it's_ blinding _…Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands…_

He babbled after that. I couldn't make anything of it.

* * *

Rose looked up at Beckman and they both sat in a stricken silence. After a moment, Beckman spoke between clenched teeth. "I don't know if anyone deserves what happened to him, but…Henry Higgins from hell…"

"I know. What he did to Walker! How little he seems to have actually understood her. How could he do that to Walker and feel as he obviously feels for his wife?" The question hung in the air above them both for a little while.

"We are all large, Rose; we all contain multitudes. You could call any of us 'Legion'." Beckman was quiet for a second or two. "Power corrupts. It really does."

"Aunt Becky, you are a General."

" _I am_."

They looked at each other. Beckman returned to the subject.

"As far as Walker goes, he was just that sure of his own power, his own judgment. You know, I met him once, years ago. We were both new in intelligence. Both ambitious. We weren't likely to get along—and we didn't. He was a colossal ass. But he wasn't evil. That came later. I guess it would be too simple and too neat to think he is all-evil now. He's clearly lost his mind. He had enough good in him to love a good woman and for her to love him back—for a long time, anyway."

The waiter brought their food and they ate in a thick, reflective silence.

Where had Graham gone, Beckman wondered. And how did he manage to go anywhere at all? It seemed likely, unless Graham had miraculously recovered, that he would go either to Marge or to Walker, to his North or South pole. Marge, obviously, would be easier to get to. Walker perhaps made more sense as a destination, but how could a man in the midst of a mental breakdown get from DC to LA? She hoped one of the teams she'd dispatched before she picked up Rose could find him.

Rose glanced warily at Beckman. "Uh, Aunt Becky, what is an _Intersect_?"

* * *

Chuck and Sarah and Casey and…Morgan descended the staircase into Castle. Bryce was standing at the bottom, looking up at the group. He knew Morgan was coming. Morgan, although he had heard the name 'Bryce' hadn't put it together until he was nearly at the foot of the stairs.

When Morgan put it together, he flew at Bryce. Bryce was completely surprised; it might not have mattered. Morgan hit him hard in the face. Bryce went down, his cane clattering across the floor.

"Bryce Larkin, you bastard." Morgan stood over Bryce, glowering. Casey had been unhappy about reading Morgan in until that moment. His chuckle-grunt suggested that he had changed his mind.

Chuck ran over and helped Bryce up. "Morgan, enough! I know you are still running on adrenaline. I know how hard this all is to take in. Take a breath and take a seat." Morgan sat down.

"Does anyone have a paper bag? I think I'm going to have a panic attack." Sarah hurried to find one.

Chuck looked at Bryce. "Sorry, I guess he has some issues."

"He's not the only one, Chuck."

"I'm here whenever you want to talk to me, man to man, Bryce." Sarah brought a paper bag to Morgan in time to hear the exchange. Morgan took the bag and breathed into and out of it. Everyone sat down with him at the central table.

Casey started. "Are Hilda and her goons in the holding cells?"

"Yes, Bob and Cheryl brought them in a little while ago. What about the scene, the apartment?"

"Barely disturbed. There was a little of Walker's blood in the hallway." Casey gestured at Sarah's bandaged forehead. "Otherwise, we just had a few pieces of furniture to put back in place. I take full responsibility. I should have seen them coming, should have raised the alarm. This should never have happened."

"How did it happen? How could she have found Chuck?"

Chuck was fiddling with a phone. Two others were on the table. He raised his hand. Bryce sighed. "Chuck?"

"I think I know. This is Hilda's phone. I, uh, figured out her password. She has a photograph of me in the bar. Given the angle, it must have originally been taken by Dee or Dum." He picked up another phone. "Yeah, yeah, it was sent to her by Dee. She sent it to Peter Murphy. He must have a mole somewhere, because he reported back to her that I had turned up in a database—the same information, I bet, that I found on myself in the Intersect back when we went to Stanford. My home address would have been on that Stanford paperwork. I guess no one thought to erase that information. I didn't."

Morgan had been listening. He put the paper bag on the table and began to look around, craning his head, his eyes wide in disbelief. "...It's like being on the bridge of the Enterprise. Except you can't tell who is going to die by the color of their uniform. You guys don't have uniforms, do you? Of course not, what am I thinking."

"Morgan," Sarah said sharply but not unkindly. "Please sit down and be still. We will talk to you about all this in just a minute."

"Hilda clearly has no idea about the Intersect. " Chuck's fingers danced on Hilda's phone. "I think she assumed that I was an asset, someone chosen because she'd find me…attractive." Chuck put her phone down, chagrined. "She…uh…has a gallery of past pre-game meals on here."

Casey grunted. "Huh. Buffet o' Nerd. Walker might be interested. More guys for her to cover date. I will…talk to Hilda and her goons. We'll see if that is how it happened. But I'm guessing you are right, Bartowski."

Bryce turned to Morgan. "Ok, Mr. Grimes, I guess it is time to read you in…"


	28. Chapter 27: Sooners

A/N After several longish installments, a shorter one. Thanks for reading, everyone. I look forward to your reviews and PMs. If you are enjoying the story, please let me know.

Don't Own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 27 Sooners

* * *

 _Determined to love_

 _Lured by the barbarous fowl_

 _He enters the rusty thicket of wires_

 _Where nothing is tame_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 73_

* * *

Sarah and Chuck walked Morgan to his bike after they finished in Castle.

Chuck offered to drive him home, but he said he needed the ride to clear his head—and he'd need his bike in the morning. Morgan had taken the reading-in well.

He had listened quietly. He asked a couple of relevant questions. He understood that knowing about Team Bartowski and being on the Team were two different things. He knew, but he was to stay on the sidelines.

"One thing: So Bryce thinks you are cover dating, and so does Casey?"

"No, Casey knows we are really a couple."

"Chuck, my man, you are now officially The Most Interesting Man in the World. By the way," Morgan's voice became a stage whisper, "is this Intersect thingy the reason you keep beating me at video games."

"I've always beaten you at video games, Morgan."

"Oh. Right."

As he rode away, Chuck turned to Sarah with a cautiously optimistic shrug. She echoed it. Then she took Chuck's hand.

"Little bearded man is no coward," Chuck mused.

"No, he isn't. Look, I know we had to take care of Morgan, Chuck. Get his head on straight. Talk him through this. But how are you, Chuck. The whole…Hilda episode, you know. Are you ok?"

Chuck shook his head. Sarah was not convinced. "What's wrong, Chuck? Was it something I did?"

"You?"

"Morgan told me that he is afraid of me, Chuck. He was joking, but also he wasn't. Are you sure you aren't afraid of me too? You know so much more about me than what I did today. I don't want you to be afraid of me. Ever."

"I'm not afraid of you, Sarah. I mean, yes, you are scary. Hello, knives. Hello, gun. Hello, ninja. But, you know, it's like that man in the grizzly movie. You're scary, but I am not afraid of you. I love you."

"You remember, don't you, Chuck, that man got eaten by grizzlies."

"Oh, yeah. Ok, so my illustration was not apt. But I gave you that weird Old Faithful one the other day."

Sarah smirked. "That you did. Fair enough."

Sarah took his other hand so that she was holding them both, swinging them slightly, excitedly. "I love you, Chuck Bartowski. I really, really love you."

"I love you too, Sarah Walker."

Sarah bit her lip in response. "We need to have a talk about my name. Not tonight, Chuck, I'm not up to it. But soon."

"Sure…Lisa. I'd like that."

"Soon, Irving. Take me home and…sleep…with me? If that's still ok? _Soon_ on…some other things, too. But not tonight."

"Perfectly ok. I'm still a little shaky from today. I'll call Ellie and let her know what's up. She'll wonder why no one was home when she got in from work. Then, I'll head to your place and curl up next to my grizzly."

Sarah growled and chased him through the parking lot to the Nerd Herder. It was parked next to her Porsche. They kissed quickly, got in their respective cars and drove to her apartment.

* * *

Still no word on Graham.

Beckman tapped anxiously on her desk with the pencil in her hand. Where could he be? She had spent a little time on the pages in Graham's bible, but cryptography had never been her long suit. She brought it in and turned it over to her best code breakers. Maybe they would come up with something soon.

Beckman's thoughts overnight had been often of Sarah Walker. How much of what Beckman now knew about Graham should Beckman tell Walker? On the one hand, it seemed like she had a right to know, on the other, it seemed like it might just add to her burdens. Maybe Rose would have an opinion about that.

Anyway, it seemed past time to end the cover dating craziness. Larkin would just have to accept that the woman he had cared for was in love with Chuck Bartowski. If he couldn't, she would find him a suitable post elsewhere. She'd call Sarah soon.

Her assistant came in and handed Beckman a slip of paper. There was new chatter about a Fulcrum cell operating again in LA. Well, of course, because if you are fighting a two-front war, it makes no sense for either enemy to take a goddamn day off.

* * *

Chuck was on his way to the Buy More from his apartment. He'd gone to shower and change into his uniform. His phone rang. Ellie. He was surprised to hear from her.

"Hey, El! What's up?"

"Have you heard from dad, Chuck?"

"Nope. Got an email the other day, but it was really just him checking in. Nothing new. Why?"

"I still haven't heard from him since the download. I'm getting worried. But I also have questions, not just about you, but about another file I found on the computer, one that makes little sense to me. It wasn't labeled as an Intersect file, and it was buried on the machine. I found it by accident. Do you know anything about a person or a project called _Agent X_? Have you ever heard of an agent called _Frost_?"

"No, sorry, sis, I don't know anything about either. Should I ask Sarah?"

"Yes, ask her. And maybe send an email to dad, and ask him? I will ask if he gets in touch with me."

"Sure. Love ya, El! Tell Captain, My Captain I said 'Good Morning!"

"Ok. Bye."

* * *

Inside the Buy More, a sleepily aggressive Jeff confronted Chuck, a piece of paper in hand. A home install had been scheduled and Chuck, specifically, requested. Chuck couldn't make out the customer's name. Jeff's handwriting made chicken scratches look like lessons in penmanship. But the address was clear enough. Frustrating: Chuck had wanted to work for a while in the Chuck Pen, to do some repairs and send that email to his dad. He also had the fourth letter from Sarah in his bag, and he needed to read it. He checked the scheduled time for the install. Not enough time to do what he wanted to do. He'd get back to the Pen later. He turned and went back to the Herder outside.

* * *

Sarah was sitting in a chair in her apartment. She was finishing the coffee and the pastry that Chuck had gotten for her that morning. She knew she looked frowzy, but she felt wonderful. The last words Chuck had said to her were 'I love you' and those were the last words she said to him.

She was in love, head-over-heels, can't-see-straight, serious-palpitations _love_. She had been for a long time, she knew, but she had worked so hard to keep it from everyone (like that had worked!) and worked even harder to keep it from herself (like that had worked!), so she had never been able to enjoy it, apart from a few days in Tahoe. Now, she was ready to just lean into it, so to speak, to let herself just _be in love_. She felt renewed, like a new woman. She had given him the fourth letter last night, although he hadn't read it then. Writing it had made her feel closer to him already, even more fully revealed to him, even more than she realized it would when she first finished it. She was hopeful about his reaction, if nervous. She was nearly ready to make love to Chuck again, and she was giddy at the prospect of being able to tell him she loved him while she made love to him. Nearly ready: she was starting to plan the night.

Soon.

* * *

The doctors had ordered his straps removed. Graham was happy about that.

He waited until the night shift was well underway before he got up and slipped out of his room. He walked carefully and silently down the hallway. He found a supply room. He was happy about that. He found scrubs and quickly took off his hospital gown and donned the scrubs. He now looked like a doctor or a nurse. He was happy about that. He went back into the hallway. He found the staff locker room. He tried the handles of lockers. In one he found a coat big enough to fit him. In another, a pair of rain boots. A little big, but they would work. He slipped on the boots and put the coat on. He found a knit cap in the pocket of the coat and he pulled it down over his head.

He noticed that there was a box of candy on the table, one of those charity boxes that operated on the honor system: take a candy bar, put money in the built-in cardboard box. Graham ripped the box open. There were several bills inside. Enough. It was enough to get him home by bus. He was happy about that. He heard music playing, but then realized it was just in his head. Other than the music, he felt strangely mentally clear. His head wasn't hurting—and he was happy about that. It was time to settle some scores.

Several women had betrayed him. He was not happy about that.

He walked out of the hospital and onto the bus. _One last mission_.

* * *

Chuck couldn't apologize enough.

The woman who opened the apartment door where he thought he was supposed to do the home install was, clearly, insane. She had taken one look at his Nerd Herd uniform and began to scream about salesmen. She started chanting: "No solicitors! No solicitors!" Chuck backed away from her door, making vaguely placating gestures with his hands.

As he backed away, he heard another woman's voice from down the hall. "I think you made a mistake. I called the Buy More."

Chuck turned. He could not see the speaker, but he could see that a door down the hallway was open. The crazy woman slammed her door, but Chuck could still hear her inside: "No solicitors! No solicitors!" He shrugged and headed for the open door.

He stepped inside and heard the disembodied voice again: "TV and stuff are there in the living room. I will be right out." The voice struck Chuck as familiar, but maybe it was just that the voice was friendly and warm, as opposed to the crazy woman's voice of shrill hostility.

Chuck walked over to the boxes and began to open one.

"Hi, Chuck!"

Chuck turned. There stood Jill Roberts. Jill Roberts.

For a moment, he could see nothing. He could only hear her name sounding in his head, a chant replacing the neighbor's No Solicitor's chant: Jill. Jill. Jill. Jill.

She was standing in front of him wrapped in a towel, a smallish towel. Her hair was still wet from the shower but combed out.

The years had done nothing but increase her attractiveness. It seemed like he had seen her just yesterday; it seemed like he had never seen her before.

He had played out reunion scenes so often in his mind, he knew at some level that he must have played this one out, or some near variant. But his thoughts otherwise seemed frozen in place. Jill Roberts. Jill.

She smiled at him provocatively. She walked to him while he was still stunned. She got close enough for him to smell her shampoo, evidently the one she had used at Stanford. The smell was strong and strongly affecting. Memories of her fresh from the shower, in bed with him in her dorm room, filled his mind, carried by the scent. He could feel the heat of her body, warmed by the warm water of the shower. She stepped right up to him, her damp towel squeezed between her chest and his.

"It's been a long time, Chuck. I've missed you."

Jill.

* * *

Jill was standing in her bathroom. She'd timed the shower right.

She heard the woman next door screaming. She went to her door and spoke, but without putting her head in the hallway. "I think you made a mistake…" When she finished, Jill stepped quickly back into her bathroom. She heard Chuck come in. She told him that the TV and stuff were in the living room. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was glowing from the shower. She had carefully combed out her hair. She had been sure to buy the shampoo she'd used in college, the one she knew Chuck liked and responded to. She readjusted the towel for maximum impact. She'd have to be careful or she would show Chuck things before she wanted them seen. Seen again.

She realized her breath was coming in quick gasps. She hoped she would have reason to breath like that soon, but right now she needed to be in control. She calmed herself as best she could and walked into the living room behind Chuck.

He was bent over the TV box, opening it. He was still lanky, but he had filled out since college.

"Hi, Chuck!"

He turned. She was glad she'd gone and seen him earlier. Her reaction to him now was so strong it was all she could do to hold the towel in place. Something deep in her, low in her abdomen, shouted, "Yes!"

She couldn't keep herself from walking to him and pressing into him. _God, he feels good. He smells good. His hair!_ Jill forgot missions, Fulcrum, Leader, the Intersect. The cost she had paid to live the life she now lived was standing pressed against her, and there was nothing but a damp towel covering her. Maybe she could somehow find a way to recoup that cost. Maybe she could have him again, really have him. That deep part of her was now chanting: Chuck. Chuck. Chuck. Chuck.

One quick flick of her wrist and she could show her world to him. He looked glassy-eyed, stunned. She had expected to affect him. She had not expected to be _so_ affected herself. She _wanted_ him so much she was starting to shake. Soon.

"It's been a long time, Chuck. I've missed you."

Chuck.

* * *

Sarah.

Her name came into Chuck's mind and he was himself again, Chuck, not _Chuck in some desperate fantasy of getting Jill back_.

No, he was Chuck, Sarah's Chuck. And the woman pressed against him in the towel was not the apotheosis of womanhood. He had said 'I love you' this morning to the woman who held that place in his life.

No, this was just a very pretty woman in a very small towel, a very pretty woman in a very small towel with whom he had a lot of history. Most of it, he remembered as his thoughts continued to thaw, bad.

Sarah.


	29. Chapter 28: Compromising Positions

A/N In the thick of things. Thanks for reading, reviewing and PMing.

Don't Own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 28 Compromising Positions

* * *

 _He meets his artiste_

 _Who invites him to her ballet_

 _There the swimming head_

 _Makes everybody bleed_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 73_

* * *

Bryce had spent the night in Castle. Jill was gone. There was no reason to go back to his apartment.

Casey had interrogated Hilda. Chuck's reconstruction of how she had found him was confirmed. Beckman has sent word that there was chatter of a Fulcrum cell operating in LA.

Fulcrum. { _Agent Roberts_ } Bryce shook his head. It was like he had heard a voice. But he knew he was alone, except for Hilda and Dee and Dum, and they were all sequestered in soundproof cells.

Bryce had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had broken out in a cold sweat. He took a minute to put his hands down on the table he was seated at. He breathed in and out deliberately. He felt better.

He missed Jill. He wished she were in town. { _I love you, Jill_ } Bryce shook his head again. Maybe he needed to get out of Castle, spend some time in the sun and open air. He was getting claustrophobic. Sarah was due to take over in another couple of hours. He could send Cheryl down until then. Bob could open the Orange Orange by himself. Bryce was panicky. He hoped he wasn't relapsing.

* * *

Casey was puzzled. Bartowski went out on an install a while ago. Whatever else Casey might think of Bartowski, the kid knew his job. He should have been able to knock that install out fast and to have come back by now.

Casey walked over to the Nerd Herd desk. Jeff was leaning against the desk, staring vacantly at Morgan. Morgan was stacking video games up for display. The stack kept falling, tipping over. Jeff made no offer of help. He just watched the process of stacking and tipping. Casey stopped in front of Jeff.

"Where's Bartowski?"

"Home install. Special request."

Casey's gut tightened. "Really? Do you have a copy of the paperwork?"

Jeff shook his head as if Casey only wanted to know that Jeff had one, not to see it. Casey grabbed Jeff by his loose tie and jerked him close. "Give me the copy, you moron!"

Jeff stumbled to the opposite desk and moved papers around. Finally, he grabbed one and handed it to Casey, standing as far from the big man as he could and still deliver the page.

Casey grabbed it from Jeff's hand. The name on the sheet was illegible. Jeff's handwriting, Casey knew. But the address was barely legible. Casey grabbed his phone called Chuck. It went to voicemail immediately. Casey called Sarah.

"Sarah, I'm worried about Bartowski. He went out on an install, one for which he was specially requested. He's been gone longer than he should have been. He isn't answering his phone. Here's the address, meet me there. Wait for me if you get there first, I'll do the same if I do." Casey read the address to Sarah. They were roughly equidistant from it. "We should be there at the same time or nearly so."

Casey hurried into the parking lot and into the Crown Vic. He dialed Bryce as he opened the car. No answer. That was strange. He dialed the emergency number for Castle. Cheryl, not Bryce, answered the phone.

"Cheryl, where the hell is Larkin?"

"He wasn't feeling well. He stepped out. He didn't say when he would be back. I don't know where he went. He didn't seem quite himself."

"Ok, keep an eye on things there. Be ready to send help if we need it. If Bryce shows up, tell him what is going on and make him stay put."

Casey had gotten the Crown Vic into traffic. He saw an opening and punched the gas.

* * *

Before Chuck could say anything, Jill slipped her hand up to his shoulder. He started to step back and she tranquilized him.

He went down in a heap. Jill walked quickly to her bedroom. It was empty except for her phone, sitting on the windowsill. She picked it up and hit a button.

She went into the bathroom and took off the towel. She dropped it in the tub. Other than the towel, there was nothing in the bathroom but a large plastic bag, a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo. Jill grabbed them soap and the shampoo and put them in the bag. Then she picked the towel back up and wiped down the surfaces of the shower and the bathroom counter, as well as the door and its knobs. She shoved the towel into the bag and threw it out into the living room floor, near Chuck's unconscious body.

A Fulcrum team had wiped down the entire apartment earlier in the day. All of her things had been moved. Another Fulcrum agent bought the TV and the other electronic items with cash at Large Mart, as well as the couch and TV stand. Large Mart's video for the day of the purchases had been wiped. Jill grabbed the clothes she had left folded in a cupboard in the kitchen. She dressed with practiced rapidity, an actress between scenes. By the time there was a knock on the door, she was completely ready.

She opened the door. Two Fulcrum agents, a man and a woman, were standing there. Without a word, they entered the room and grabbed Chuck. Putting one of his arms around each of their shoulders, they carried him from the apartment. Jill followed, taking the towel out of the plastic bag and wiping down the apartment door.

Jill's apartment was at the end of the hall. The stairwell door ended the hall. She followed the agents as they took Chuck to the stairs. She made sure the door closed quietly. As the agents took Chuck down the stairs, she wiped down the stairwell door, and then caught up with the agents.

She held her breath. They met no one on the stairs.

The agents had stationed a van next to the exit. They moved Chuck to it, slid the side door open and lifted him inside. Jill wiped down the exit door then jumped in the side door of the van and slid it closed. A moment later, the van was gone.

Inside the van, neither of the agents was watching Jill. She rubbed the spot on his shoulder where she had inserted the needle. She leaned down and kissed Chuck's lips.

* * *

Casey got to the apartment building just seconds before Sarah did. He saw her arrive just as he entered the building. He called the elevator, and punched the button for the third floor just as Sarah slipped in beside him.

When the doors closed, they both checked their weapons. Neither spoke. They got to the door of the apartment. Sarah pressed herself against the exterior wall on the hinges' side of the door. Casey looked at her. She nodded. He kicked the door in. He rushed inside, taking one side of the room as Sarah took another.

A woman was seated in a recliner, watching TV—a diamond ring turned slowly on the screen above a rapidly falling price. She screamed as the door crashed and Casey came in.

"I said 'No Solicitors'!" She stood up and started chanting the phrase at Casey. He pointed the gun at her and she shut up. Sarah swept through the house. She came back, her eyes terrified. "He's not here!"

"Who?" The old woman put her hands on her hips, no longer intimidated by Casey's gun since Sarah had reached over and gently lowered it. "Are you after that other solicitor?"

Sarah stepped toward the woman urgently. "What did the other solicitor look like?"

"Tall, polite, curly brown hair, grey tie, name tag. Mormon, maybe, now that I think about it."

"Where did he go?"

"I think he went next door."

"Who lives next door?"

"Some woman. Never really seen her clearly. Takes the stairs. Late twenties, maybe. Dark hair. Slim."

Sarah started into the hallway as the woman finished her description. Casey picked the woman's door off the floor and leaned it against her doorframe. He peeked back through the crack. "Someone will be here soon to repair this and pay you for the damages."

"Fine," the woman said, as she sat back down to her shopping show, already engrossed, "just make sure he doesn't try to sell me anything."

* * *

Sarah knew that if anyone were inside the next apartment, the noise of the entry next door would have alerted him or her. Her instincts told her that no one was there. But she and Casey repeated their positioning outside the door, except this time Casey stood on the other side of the door and reached out to try the knob. The door opened.

Casey pushed it. It swung into the apartment. This time, Sarah went in first. There was some furniture in the living room—a couch and a low stand to hold a TV and other electronics. There was an opened but unemptied TV box in the room, and some other unopened electronics boxes.

Once Casey was in, Sarah went through the rest of the apartment. Empty. Nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the bedrooms or bathroom. The bathroom was still slightly humid, like someone had showered in it not long before, but the mirror was clear and there were only a few drops of water standing in the bottom of the shower.

"No one is here, Casey. But someone was here. Call Castle. Have them get a team here to go over this place carefully. Maybe whoever it was missed something, left something."

Sarah's heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear her own voice. But she fought against the panic. Chuck needed her. She was going to save him.

Casey's phone rang. He listened for a moment then ended the call.

"That was Cheryl. Bob found Bryce. He was wandering around inside Underpants Underpants. Bob says Bryce is…confused." Casey shrugged at Sarah.

"Shit."

* * *

Chuck woke up. Later. He had no idea how much later. Later.

He was secured to a heavy wooden chair by zip ties. One quick yank against them told him the cost his skin would pay if he struggled against the ties. He was still wearing his Nerd Herd uniform. He was thirsty, but not parched. He was not very hungry. Maybe he had been out several hours, possibly a day. Not more. The room seemed mostly empty. Concrete floor. Concrete walls. Industrial light fixtures. There was a bed along one wall and a metal table along another. The bed was made. The tabletop was bare.

Chuck noticed that his bag was scrunched under the bed.

He tried to make himself relax. Sarah would find him. She would come for him. Casey, too. Maybe even Bryce. There was a Buy More record of where he went.

He thought about Jeff's scribbles. They'd never get a name off that copy of the paperwork. Chuck had the original and could not decipher it. But the address—it wasn't right but it wasn't far wrong. That crazy lady would surely remember him.

Jill. Jill Roberts did this to him. Jill Roberts was a _spy_.

Chuck wondered if it were possible to cackle and vomit concurrently. He felt like he could, but he did not want to.

 _Of course,_ Jill Roberts was a spy. _Of course,_ the first time he sees her after years and years, she used a handheld tranquilizer on him. Because whose ex was _not_ a spy? Whose ex did not lure him to his likely death _wearing very small towels_? These were everyday occurrences. _Obviously_.

He fought back his rising fear. He thought of Sarah. That calmed him. He imagined her saying his name, in that way that only she could, and he felt centered.

At that moment, Jill came in.

The rush from earlier was gone. _Getting tranquilized will do that_.

Chuck was surprised though that her eyes carried no hint of self-satisfaction or victory. Her eyes looked as they sometimes had at Stanford when she had done poorly on a test she expected to do well on: her eyes were frustrated, slightly disappointed, mostly determined. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that. She came in followed by a man with a folding chair. He opened it and she sat down on it. She glanced at the man and he immediately left the room, shutting the heavy metal door with a clang and a click.

There were no windows. As far as Chuck could tell, there were no cameras. Given the man's reaction, Jill seemed to be in charge.

Chuck decided to wait for her to speak. No reason to let his pounding heart speed him into oversharing. Jill reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out a cell phone. Holding it in her hand, she sat back in the chair and crossed her legs at the knee, swinging her dangling foot in the air slightly. The posture would have been alluring if she were wearing a dress and heels, but since she was wearing a black t-shirt, old fatigue pants with cargo pockets, and black combat boots, the effect was mainly jarring. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail.

She stared at him for a little while, her eyes sweeping up and down his body. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She looked around the room as if she thought someone might be watching or listening.

"Chuck, I meant what I said earlier. I've missed you. I've replayed scenes of our meeting over and over in my head. They never involved me tranquilizing you, although they often involved me wearing few clothes, if any." She blushed as she leaned back. She still had the phone in her hand.

"I work for Fulcrum, Chuck. This is a Fulcrum base. I am the ranking agent here, so, for now, at least, I am in charge. Here is what I know—and I do know it, Chuck, so denying it will gain you nothing but will waste time, time we do not have.

"You _have_ , in some sense you _are_ , something Fulcrum has wanted for a very long time. The Intersect. From the early days of Fulcrum's existence, the Intersect has been the Holy Grail, the object of an intense and long-lasting chase. We know that Orion created it. We do not know who Orion is. We know that some form of the early technology was stolen from Orion, but we do not know originally stole it. We have acquired a…version…of that technology.

"We know that Orion later created successor technologies, like the one you ultimately got from Bryce Larkin. We believe that technology was also stolen from Orion. Again, we do not know who stole it. It eventually ended up in the CIA's hands, and tinkered with and further developed by Graham and his team. We thought we were going to be able to steal it. Then Larkin managed to screw that up.

"Long story short: You are what Fulcrum has been chasing since Fulcrum existed. But no one other than me knows that—yet. I don't know if there is a way for me to keep you…alive. I am willing to try. You 'd have to trust me," Jill smirked ironically at him, knowing that he would smirk at her, and he did, "but we might be able to give my boss what he wants, while I—while we, " she looked at him with calculation and hope, "while we might be able to get what we want, something like what we want, anyway."

Chuck was confused. He was angry. Both emotions danced on the firm floor of his fear. "What is it that…we…want, Jill?" Chuck dialed back his tone and swallowed the rush of questions that came into his mind.

There were a million things Chuck could think to ask Jill. But they were all retrospective, about the past—and, given the situation, right now his actual concerns were all prospective, about the future. Did he even have one?

Right now, the best tactic seemed to be to follow Jill's lead, at least as far as he could. "So, Jill, what is it we want?"

Jill stared at him for a few seconds.

He saw a shadow of the spy cross her face—a shadow he knew from his first few months with Sarah. Jill was tempted not to be tempted by what was tempting her. Her instincts were against what she was doing. She was trying to find a way to get what she wanted without giving up anything that she had. It was the spiritual equivalent of locating and counting exits, checking sight lines, trying to find a position that exposed the target but was unexposed.

She could not be trusted. Chuck knew that.

He had known it since she leaped from his troubled bed at Stanford into Bryce's busy but untroubled one. It had been confirmed in her apartment hours ago. Some old feeling, some set of memories was driving her, but there was no way of knowing what it…

Wait. Jill _wanted_ him. It had been clear when she pressed against him in her towel.

Chuck did not think of himself as desirable. It wasn't part of who he was. He didn't really think he was undesirable—just not desirable. Perhaps that fact had itself contributed to the long awkwardness with Sarah. His inability to believe she desired him made him overlook or misinterpret things that she said and did.

Jill wanted him. Whatever else was true of her, however untrustworthy she might turn out to be and had already been, her reaction to him in her apartment had not been faked. The set-up might have been fake, but her reactions to it were not. Chuck knew quite a lot by now about faking it. That was not fake. That was the one thing he could trust. It might not last long but the flame of her desire was the only light (of sorts, anyway) he had in the gathering darkness.

"As I said, we have a version of ancestral Intersect technology. It allows us to do…things to minds. Your descendent Intersect technology should 'interface' with it, allowing us to download the data you have in your head. It would be slow work, and it would take days even to create the 'interface', so as to start the downloading. But if you were willing to let us do it, comply with what we asked, I think I could ensure that _you_ were otherwise well-treated and that _we_ could otherwise be left alone to do with our time…whatever we might want to do."

"What more can you tell me about this 'interface', Jill? Will it hurt?"

"No, at least, it shouldn't." She did not seem especially worried about it, one way or the other. "Given the descendent technology you have, our technology should 'merge' with yours. Our technology allows for a kind of crude upload—nothing like the finesse of the Intersect you have. Your technology has no provision for a download. No _reverse_ in the gearbox, so to speak. Our technology does.

"There is no way (at least none we have discovered) to get your Intersect out. It was made to go into a mind and no one at the CIA ever imagined wanting to take it out. Our technology won't get your Intersect out of your head, but it will allow it to be…emptied. We would like the Intersect itself, of course, but we do not know how to remove it. Still, the combined data from the CIA and NSA—that would be a treasure-trove for us all by itself."

Jill still holding her cell phone.

* * *

Sarah's terror for Chuck was like a live, creeping thing, moving beneath her skin like a cobra beneath rice paper.

She wanted to rage and scream. She wanted to hide and cry.

She wanted Chuck.

Casey was trying to talk to Bryce. Bryce, though, was having a hard time: he was lucid, then incoherent, then lucid, then incoherent. Casey put his hand on Bryce's shoulder to steady him.

"Larkin, what is going on? How can we help you?"

"She's gone. She went out of town for a few days. I love her."

Casey's patience had grown thin. It was unclear Bryce understood the situation; unclear that it registered with him that Chuck had been taken.

"Bryce, a woman—youngish, long dark hair, slim—took Chuck. Do you know anything about that?"

Sarah's phone rang. The local CIA team had been to the apartment and had done a sweep. They found a little DNA evidence, but no fingerprints. It would take time to run the DNA evidence, and there was no guarantee that it would match anyone in their database. Sarah told them to run it.

Damn!

"Sarah," Casey said, looking from Bryce to her and back to Bryce, "I don't see any reason to think Bryce knows something about this. I think this is just a relapse. Fulcrum screwed him up worse than we thought."

At the mention of Fulcrum, Bryce stiffened. "I love her. I love Agent Roberts."

"Agent Roberts?" Sarah's heart slapped wetly on the floor. " _Jill_ Roberts?"

"I love you, Jill."

Sarah ran to the computer and punched in Jill's name.

An eternity later, the screen showed a picture of her. Her record was clean. Not even a parking ticket.

Then Sarah reversed her strategy. She put in Jill's description and cross-referenced it with unidentified Fulcrum agents. A longer eternity later, a picture of a dark-haired woman in a red dress popped onto the screen beside the earlier picture of Jill. The woman was wearing sunglasses and a hat. But Sarah was sure. It was Jill Roberts.

"Casey, Jill Roberts, Chuck's old girlfriend, _is a spy_ , a Fulcrum agent. I am sure that's her."

Casey compared the two pictures, the one of Jill and the one of the Fulcrum agent in red. "Could be. So, Bartowski's ex-girlfriend, the one he's bellyached about for so long, is a spy. His ex-best friend is a spy. His current cover-yet-real girlfriend is a spy. But Bartowski is not a spy?"

"We don't have time for this, Casey. We have to find Chuck. I can't lose him, John; I just can't." Casey put his arm stiffly around her shoulders.

* * *

Bryce could hear Sarah and Casey talking, and Casey talking to him. He knew Jill could not have taken Chuck—she was out of town. { _Who is the Intersect?_ } Jill had to travel for work. { _Fulcrum_ } Jill used to be Chuck's girlfriend. { _Your old boyfriend and my old friend_ , _Chuck Bartowski_ ) I love Jill. { _I love you, Jill_ }

Bryce tried to pull himself together. It took all his strength, all his concentration: his head was telling him one thing and his heart was resisting it.

He managed to cough out words: "Jill is Fulcrum. She took Chuck. And I am… _compromised_." Bryce collapsed.


	30. Chapter 29: Drums Afar Off

A/N Still at it. Thanks, folks, for everything. Drop me a line-a review or PM.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 29 Drums Afar Off

* * *

 _The vacation of princes has come to its end. They all set sail together for the fall of towers._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 88_

* * *

"So how would my…cooperation work?" Chuck looked at Jill, allowing his worry to show.

"Well, we would need to expose you to our technology. It would only take a few seconds each day. There would be minor side effects: some brief confusion and dizziness. Trouble concentrating. But I should be honest: those are the side effects it has had on others, not on someone with the descendent technology you have. We expect similar results, but we can't be sure."

Chuck sensed an opening. "How many days would this take?"

"Three or four, probably. " Jill shrugged: "It isn't an exact science. Lots of variables affect the Interface. If you are willing, it works faster. If your emotions are settled, it goes faster. We have found that the Intersect technology and human emotions are sometimes poor...bedfellows. Our technology would 'interface' with yours and, eventually, you would be downloadable...Or the data would."

"But it's not like I have a USB port, Jill. How would you download something from me?"

"More your area of science than mine, Chuck. It involves electrodes and wires—used to register electromagnetic fields and electrochemical changes in your brain. Our chief scientist tells me it's a little like cables sent along wires, only by means of signals far more subtle and complicated. We convert the signals into usable data."

"Huh. So it went into me photographically and it leaves me telegraphically?"

"Well, you know that's oversimplified, but, yes—you could say that. We have specially adapted our ancestral technology to 'interface' with your Intersect."

Chuck nodded and Jill looked at him, estimating his response.

"So, the adaptation you will use on me, it wouldn't affect someone who did not have the Intersect?"

"Right. All these variations on Orion's original, brilliant idea."

It suddenly struck Chuck: Who the hell was Orion? Didn't Orion have to be his _dad_?

Fulcrum had been chasing Bartowskis from the very beginning.

Chuck not only had the Intersect, he could solve the mystery that had dogged the steps of Fulcrum from the beginning. Luckily, that information was not _in the Intersect_ —at least not as he understood it.

What Chuck knew and the Intersect's data sometimes overlapped, but the former was not simply part of the latter. There were firewalls, as it were, between what belonged to him and what belonged to the Intersect.

The data in the Intersect was Chuck's in something like the way the data in a phone book he owned was Chuck's. What Chuck knew, just on his own, independent of the Intersect, was not data for the Intersect.

What he knew (saw, heard) could start the Intersect in motion, like when he had seen General Stanford's motorcade, but it no more 'belonged' to the Intersect than his childhood memories did. Except he had downloaded some ancestor version of the thing when he was a boy…

Chuck could think about all that later. What mattered now was lasting long enough for Sarah to save him. Jill was waiting for a response.

If Fulcrum did not know for sure how he would react to the 'interface' then maybe there was a way for him to stay alive and avoid giving Fulcrum one iota of data. That was one problem.

The other was figuring out how to keep Jill at bay. She had plans for them— _well-laid_ plans. Chuck wondered at how topsy-turvy it all was. There was a time when he would have traded any body part—that is, any body part not needed _for_ such a plan—if he could be the one included in such a plan.

Now, there was no way. He had burned incandescent for a second when he saw her, but that was the surprise and the small towel and the long years of desire and disappointment all combining to confuse him. But he was confused only for a second, no more. He was done with Jill. He did not want her any more than he wanted Hilda. He had put Jill behind him. Life, however, had reinstalled her as a roadblock to his future.

"I am willing to do it, I guess, Jill; I'll let you download the data. But where you and I are concerned, you are going to have to work to rebuild something between us.

"I can't just pretend that Stanford did not happen, or that Bryce did not happen," he noted that Jill's face shifted ever so subtly when he mentioned Bryce, "or that you've not been gone for nearly _six damn years_. That time counts for something. I am not the guy you dumped. I won't, I can't, become that guy again. As strange as this may sound, given stereotypes of men and women," Chuck smiled at Jill, expecting her to smile back—and she did, "I need you to take this slow. The timetable for the Intersect 'interface' and the timetable for our 'interface' don't have to be the same, do they?"

Jill's response to Chuck's answer was in her eyes, but not otherwise on her face. She did unreadable well—but Chuck had learned to read the unreadable face of Sarah Walker, and no one was better at being unreadable than she was. Jill found his answer funny, she had smiled, because she remembered, as he did, that she had given him the Let's-Take-It-Slow speech early in their dating days at Stanford, and she remembered, as he did, that Chuck had honored it. But he could also see frustration. She would wait but not for long. Somewhere in Jill's head, the Countdown to Coupling Clock had started.

Jill stood. She looked at her phone and slipped it into her pocket. "It's been a long day, Chuck. We'll start work on the download tomorrow. Get some sleep, you're going to need lots of stamina for the next few days."

"Am I going to have to sleep in the chair, in these?" Chuck pointed his chin at the zip ties around his wrists. Jill pulled a knife out of one of her boots and quickly cut all four, wrists and ankles.

"No, as long as you are cooperating, I'd much prefer it if you could get in the bed and make full and active use of your…limbs."

* * *

Jill left Chuck's cell. Maybe she could pull this off. She was very clever.

That "Yes!" from deep inside her continued to make itself heard. She wanted Chuck. That was fine; that was workable. She could play him like a piano—and she would enjoy every keystroke. No, the problem (and it was a problem) was that she could tell the "Yes!" was not going to go away after sleeping with Chuck a few times. That "Yes!" was not _just_ a one- or two- or three-off desire, it was the answer to a question that had been in her mind and on her heart since Stanford, the response of a woman who wanted to be _a wife_ to the man she wanted to be her husband.

If she was honest with herself—never Jill's specialty—she had daydreamed about marrying Chuck during almost all her quiet, lonely hours since Stanford. Leader made her give him up then. Maybe he would let her have Chuck now if she could convince Leader that he was just a plaything, her love toy. Maybe she could have him. Maybe she could have him long term.

Yes, she thought she could handle Leader for now. Chuck was going to be more of a challenge. What Fulcrum wanted from Chuck could be gotten, if need be, at gunpoint. What she wanted from him she could not get at gunpoint. She was going to have to become Chuck's girlfriend again. She giggled to herself as she went down the hallway, overcome by a sudden warmth of déjà vu.

* * *

Beckman believed in counting her blessings.

She just couldn't think of any at the moment, twenty-four hours after Chuck had been taken.

Graham was out there somewhere plotting only God knew what. She was still waiting for the pages in Graham's bible to be decoded. Neither the police nor her teams in DC had managed to find a trace of Graham. Beckman was starting to get a little jumpy at shadows herself.

Bryce was back in the clinic in Burbank, addled, maybe permanently, and in love with a Fulcrum agent. He had given up crucial information on Team Bartowski. It was evident that he was himself a victim of some kind of programming. But at least he had given them a lead on Jill Roberts.

Jill Roberts used to be Bartowski's girlfriend. She had taken Bartowski. Fulcrum now had the Intersect. Goddamn.

Beckman knew Walker had to be a mess; she also knew Walker would find a way to hold it together. She owed Walker a phone call. She would make it before she went to bed.

* * *

Graham was huddled in a box in a back-alley, tumbledown cardboard village. He'd done his reconnaissance work. He knew where she'd be. He had enough money to get back there. He'd bought a gun. It was time now to rest: he was still clear, but the pain was coming back slowly, despite him pulling his knit cap down as far and as tightly as it would go. _Uhhh_. Nothing was making Graham happy. Everything was making him unhappy. Injustice required justice like gangrene required the knife.

* * *

Around dusk, the evening of the day after Chuck was taken, Sarah was walking toward Chuck's apartment. She had texted Ellie and Morgan to meet her there to talk about Team Bartowski.

She was going to have to tell them that Chuck was gone. She had barely eaten since her pastry the other morning. Her throat felt closed. Each breath seemed to require its own deliberate effort. She missed him with her whole body. But she had to keep herself together now—for Ellie and Morgan, and ultimately for Chuck.

She knocked on the door. Ellie opened it. Unsurprisingly, Ellie looked concerned. When she got inside, Sarah could see that Morgan did too.

"Sarah," he said as if afraid of his own question, "where is Chuck? We thought he'd be with you."

Sarah steeled herself. She sat down and they both did too. "I take it you too have talked? You both know about Team Bartowski? You both know that you both know?" They nodded.

"Chuck has been taken. He'd been taken by Fulcrum, a rogue spy organization we have been in a protracted battle with since we started. They want the Intersect."

Neither Ellie nor Chuck said anything. Ellie's eyes filled with tears. Morgan cleared his throat. Finally, Ellie wiped at her eyes: "Can we get him back, Sarah? Will they kill him?"

"We are almost certain they won't kill him. They need him alive. They don't have any way of taking the Intersect out of his head. But—and I am so sorry to say this, you both _know_ how sorry I am to say this—they may do things to force him to use the Intersect for them. We don't have any concrete lead on where they took him. He is probably still in LA—but where? The Fulcrum agent who took him was Jill Roberts."

Both Ellie and Morgan sat in suspended animation for several seconds, then they simultaneously spit out a single word: "Bitch!"

They all sat in frightened silence. After a bit, Sarah swallowed hard and told them the story of Chuck's abduction and Bryce's breakdown. Ellie stood up and pulled Sarah into a hug; Morgan got up and hugged them both.

Morgan stepped back from the hug after a bit and scratched his beard. "So Jill Roberts, the skank, is an evil secret agent. How fitting is that? The dark side was always strong with that one. But, hey, Sarah, you said you think they are still in LA, right?"

"Right."

"Well, as Ellie knows, Chuck brought Jill home a couple of time when they were dating. She didn't get along well with Ellie—Ellie never liked her. I didn't either, but Chuck did, and I didn't want to give up my best friend." Morgan looked at Sarah and she grinned, despite her worry. "Anyhow, I remember that Jill had this place in town she always wanted to go for breakfast. I was not allowed to go. Jill hated me and kept trying to get Chuck to give up on me. I don't think she thought I was good enough to be her boyfriend's friend. Again, anyhow, she always wanted to go to This Hole In the Wall."

Sarah looked at Morgan in expectation. "What is the name of the place, Morgan?"

"This Hole in the Wall?"

"Yes, what's its name?"

"Oh, sorry, Sarah, its name is _This Hole In the Wall_. Jill was crazy about their blueberry and banana pancakes. Chuck and I went there once, without her. Nothing to write Julia Childs about. But it is still open—and Jill really, really liked those pancakes…"

Sarah was on the phone with Casey before Morgan finished.

* * *

On her way back to her apartment, and because she knew she'd be lucky if she slept at all, Sarah stopped by the clinic to talk to Bryce.

Since she had pulled her knife on him, they hadn't talked except about work. That had been ok with Sarah. She feared Bryce talking to her would be hard on Chuck, and she was already, if regretfully, putting Chuck through enough. But she also had little to say to Bryce.

They were finished before she came to Burbank, although she had, when she first arrived, kept the illusion that perhaps they were not. That illusion shattered the moment she told Chuck she liked him at the El Compadre, although she hadn't at that moment recognized the sound of the breaking glass. She had come to understand over the past couple of months that she had found herself the moment she said that to Chuck.

His baggage handler comment had touched something so deep in her so suddenly it opened her up, unlocked her heart before she knew to guard it. His comment became a _vade mecum_ for her heart, a guide to a life she had wanted without knowing she wanted it. Her "I like you, Chuck" had been her first step on a journey with Chuck toward Chuck, toward a real life.

She had been on no journey with Bryce. Bryce was Bryce: she had, a couple of times while they were together, picked up the word 'love' and looked at it idly, like a shopper browsing in a trinket store. But she had always put it down, not tempted to keep it to describe her relationship to Bryce. She did like him; she respected him in various ways; he was a good spy. She was thankful to him for the time she had spent with him. She had felt less adrift, more anchored. But she never really stopped feeling lonely, even when she was with him.

She knew that Bryce would always have treated her as secondary to the mission and that she would always have treated him that way. What they had was a way of trying together to make their separate spy lives more livable; it was not a single life, a life shared, united, one. Neither had been willing to give his or her freedom to the other.

That was exactly what she was willing to do with Chuck. Give him her freedom. It was not just what she was willing to do. She knew she had given him her freedom. She knew he had given her his. Each found the other the better caretaker of his or her freedom. That was commitment: freedom freely given, freedom freely received.

* * *

Bryce was conscious. He knew her when she came in. "Sarah." His voice sounded weak and distant, but he was lucid. "I was thinking about you."

She smiled at him, even though she knew her never-relenting panic about Chuck kept the smile thin.

He continued. "I was thinking about you and Chuck."

"What do you mean, Bryce?"

"I heard Casey call you Chuck's 'cover-yet-real girlfriend'."

"Oh." Sarah had been so terrified for Chuck that she had not realized Casey's mistake. Casey too, evidently.

"I guess I kind of expected it, even though I kept telling myself we would be the Andersons again. I now know why you…used your knife to threaten me. I was an ass." Bryce coughed and for a moment his eyes went out of focus. He said, "Jill." But when he stopped coughing he seemed not to realize he had said her name. He went on. "Chuck always got the best girls."

"Chuck once said the same thing to me about you, Bryce."

"Chuck's never been good at estimating himself correctly. It may be his only real weakness. I've…used it against him in the past, exploited it against him."

"Are you ever going to talk to him about Stanford, about Jill?" Sarah felt sorry she asked as soon as she had, but she had overheard their exchange the night Morgan got read-in.

Bryce could see the regret in her eyes for the question. "Yes, and there is more Jill to talk about now, I guess, even than there was before…You know, Sarah, I now think I was in love with Jill before I introduced her to Chuck. I introduced her to him because my attraction to her frightened me; it would have forced me to live a different life than the one I thought I should live in college.

"I think I gave her to Chuck for safekeeping, before I realized that, of course, she would fall in love with him. I hate to tell you this, Sarah, and knowing it breaks my heart, but I think Jill Roberts is still in love with Chuck. What I can remember about my programming sessions makes me believe it, her reaction to finding out that Chuck was the Intersect. She loves him."

Sarah stopped breathing for a minute. She could not even think. Finally, she found words. "Does that mean Chuck is safer or in more danger, Bryce?"

He looked at her, his blue eyes exhausted and sad. "I wish I knew."

Sarah sat blinking in silence. Then she grabbed Bryce's hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. "None of this is your fault, Bryce. Fulcrum did this, Jill did this."

"Find him, Sarah. Save him. And remember: Spies fall in love."

"I know, Bryce, I know."

* * *

"Sarah?" A voice on the phone.

"Diane?" Sarah was surprised to hear from General Beckman. "Has something happened? Something with Chuck?" Sarah sat up in bed.

"No, no, Sarah. I just wanted to talk to you. How are you doing?"

"Not very well, Diane, to be honest. I can't eat and I can't sleep. But we are hoping we might be able to find Jill tomorrow."

"Casey briefed me. Does Chuck know you love him, Sarah?"

"Yes, he does." For the first time since he had gone missing, Sarah felt a flash of happiness. _At least he knows_.

"And you know he loves you?"

"Yes, I do." Another flash of happiness.

"Hang on to that, Sarah, and to this: that man of yours never does what anyone tells him, good guys or bad. And he is very clever, Sarah. He'll stay ok until you find him. I believe that."

"Thanks, Diane."

"I have more I want to talk to you about, Sarah. But it will keep. Remember, as all the Robert Ludlum spies tell themselves at some point, sleep is a weapon. That's true. Sleep for Chuck, so that you will have all your weapons at the ready tomorrow. Goodnight, Sarah."

"Goodnight, Diane, and thanks."

* * *

Leader smiled. Roberts had finally reported. Such very good news. The Intersect at last!

So Roberts wanted a toy. Something of her very own to play with.

Well, Leader only cared about the Intersect, not the man, this Bartowski, that the Intersect came in. She could have the hardware. Leader only wanted the software. Of course, Roberts would eventually have to put away her childish thing if she was going to continue to please Leader.

And by putting it away, of course, Leader meant: _put it in the ground._


	31. Chapter 30: A Noise of Hunters Heard

A/N1 Shakespearean stage directions. Foul deeds. Hold on, everybody! Thanks for reading, as always.

Don't own Chuck, ain't makin' money. I am a harmless drudge, nothing more.

* * *

CHAPTER 30 A Noise of Hunters Heard

* * *

 _And now play it, Jack! Give it that new-old sound!_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace, Epilogue_

* * *

Chuck heard steps in the hallway. Steps. Specifically, Chuck heard heels coming up the hallway. He heard the door click and then clang. It opened.

Jill walked in wearing a gauzy peach dress and matching peach heels. She had a light grey sweater, unbuttoned, over the dress. She was wearing a short strand of pearls. She had on the perfume he remembered from college; it wafted around Chuck as she moved.

Behind her was the same man from yesterday. He was carrying a folding card table and two folding chairs. He also had a large bag dangling from one hand. Chuck jumped up from the bed and grabbed the bag. The man put the chairs down and unfolded the table. Then he unfolded the chairs around it. The man slipped out of the room, almost running. Jill took the bag from Chuck.

The man returned with a white tablecloth. He spread it on the table. Jill handed him the bag and the man took out two to-go boxes and put them down on the table. He fished some plastic forks and knives and spoons out of the bag, and a handful of napkins. He finished setting the table. He left again.

Jill motioned for Chuck to sit. He did. The man came back with two Styrofoam cups. He took off the lids. Coffee.

Jill smiled warmly at Chuck. "I thought we could have our favorite breakfast, blueberry and banana pancakes, from This Hole in the Wall." She smiled sweetly—at least she was going for sweetly, but her hunger (which hunger he was not sure, maybe both) gave it a predatory edge. "Eat up!"

She stared at the man. "Leave." Her tone made Chuck wish the pancakes were warmer.

He smeared butter from a packet on his, but it wouldn't melt. Jill prepared hers and began to eat with relish. He felt her foot on his beneath the table. She had kicked off one of her heels, and her bare foot slid beneath the cuff of his jeans. She smiled a syrupy smile.

Chuck smiled a smile he did not feel around a mouthful of pancakes he did not like.

* * *

Beckman had talked to Casey. She knew the current situation.

Sarah and Casey had put a tap on the phone at the restaurant Roberts liked. One call had been promising—a man ordering two stacks of blueberry banana pancakes. He came to the restaurant, picked up the order and drove to a small warehouse. He had taken precautions against a tail but Sarah had been too good. She'd stayed on him all the way, the non-descript rental car she was driving and her skill making them practically invisible. She and Casey were now on stakeout in an abandoned house across from the warehouse.

 _Two_ orders of pancakes. That made Beckman feel a little better. It probably made Sarah feel a little better too. But what was Roberts up to? Breakfast for two in that warehouse? She hoped Sarah and Casey could find a way to get Chuck out of there before Roberts drowned him in syrup—or worse.

* * *

Casey stood a few steps back from the broken second-floor window. He was standing near Walker in a musty room. They were both angry.

During his surveillance, Casey had been able to spot three men posted outside the warehouse, and a fourth who seemed to be walking the perimeter. The pancake guy had vanished inside the warehouse and not returned. Casey had seen no sign of Jill.

He and Sarah had been debating their options. They were both deeply worried about Chuck and about the entire situation. They were both frustrated, stymied. It had led to them whisper-yelling at each other just moments ago.

It seemed unlikely that Fulcrum would kill Chuck. They would want the Intersect, and, since they presumably could not take it from Chuck, they would have to use Chuck. Chuck would resist—Sarah and Casey both knew that. He might joke about his girlish screams, but when it was time to be brave, Chuck was. They would hurt him, maybe a lot. But it would be a bad idea to rush the building. They had no idea how many more Fulcrum agents were inside, or with what they were equipped. If they rushed the building successfully, then the Fulcrum agents might kill Chuck at the last, judging it better for no one to have the Intersect.

Sarah thought she might be able to slip into the warehouse undetected and get Chuck out. Casey, who believed in her skills completely, nonetheless thought that was too much of a long shot. If Chuck were drugged or hurt or chained or caged, Sarah would have a very hard time getting him out, even assuming she could get in.

Casey favored waiting for dark and going in with a small team wearing night vision tech. They could take out the guards silently, cut the power to the warehouse, and then try to get to Chuck and get him out in the darkness and confusion.

Casey's plan, Sarah knew, was the better plan. But it meant she had to sit here for hours, knowing Chuck was only a handful of yards from her, and wait for darkness. She would have to stare at that building wondering what Fulcrum, what Jill, was doing to Chuck, or doing with him. Sarah trusted Chuck implicitly, but who knew what Jill might be willing to make him do. It was like being in the van on the Hilda mission again, except far, far worse. Sarah was not sure she could stay sane until dark.

* * *

Jill piled the debris from breakfast on the table. She pushed her foot back into her heel, got up and knocked on the door. The man came in and took the trash, putting it in the bag.

Chuck had remained seated, and Jill sat back down. She leaned over the table, her arms crossed atop it so that her cleavage deepened as her arms pushed up her breasts. She held the pose for several beats. Chuck knew he had to look. She had to feel like she was making progress or this would never work. He looked. He glanced up at her and grinned nervously—the nervousness genuine enough. She seemed to think that the service game had gone to her, and her smile grew.

"We are going to go now to start the 'interface'. We will be able to do the later stages of it here, on a much smaller device, but the initial work is best done with more computing power at our disposal. I also…want you to meet Leader."

Chuck smirked. "You mean: Take me to your leader."

Jill smirked back, leaning even harder into her arms. "No, I mean: Take you to Leader. Leader is his name, not just his role."

"Sort of like _Sting_?"

Jill looked at Chuck in dull incomprehension. He then realized he didn't completely understand his own attempt at a joke. Maybe there was a joke in there somewhere? Damn pancakes, ballast on his levity.

"Well, let's get this started, Jill."

"Maybe we could come back here afterward and talk some, Chuck? Once the interface work is done, there will be nothing for either of us to do the rest of the day."

"Let's see how I feel, Jill. Like you said, the effects of this process are not yet known."

Jill got up and led him out of the room. They walked down a long corridor. There were a few other people around, presumably more Fulcrum agents. Some were watching TV, a few were playing cards. In one room, there were two sleeping on cots.

They crossed a large open area, presumably the place where wares had been housed when this was a warehouse. On the other side of it were stairs leading up to a kind of second story room. Over the door was a sign: _Office_.

Jill opened the door and led Chuck inside. In the room were various bits of computing equipment. There was an empty chair in front of a large dark monitor. Chuck knew he'd be in that chair in a few minutes.

On the wall was a larger monitor, not dark. On it was an image of a human, a human-ish, head. The head was distorted in various ways. Its features constantly moved, its size changed more or less at random. Behind it was a strange set of parallel lines, moving around, now horizontal, now vertical, and now diagonal. And then the head spoke. Or rather, Chuck could hear the voice on the monitor.

"I am Leader, Bartowski. Fulcrum is my brainchild. You have something I have been trying to find for a very long time. I understand that you cannot give it to me, but you can give me an important part of it. We are here to initiate that process." The head held its shape for a moment and the features stopped crawling, revealing a creeping, creepy death's head smile: Satan crossed with Max Headroom.

"Didn't I see you once on Letterman?"

Leader did not speak. Jill, suddenly visibly nervous, spoke instead. "We are ready to get this started, Leader."

The creepy smile shifted and changed size against the background of parallel lines. Chuck was annoyed. He still felt Jill's foot on his leg. Now it turned out that Fulcrum's Leader was a bad 80s talking head? Chuck pushed: "A daffodil by any other name, right, Leader?"

"What are you babbling about, Bartowski?" Leader was annoyed. Leader clearly did not like to be annoyed.

"You have an interesting speech pattern, Leader, and that's a smile someone should kill, not that anyone should kill for."

"Start the process!" Leader yelled. "If there is a way to make it hurt, make it hurt!" The screen went dark.

Jill was shaking with rage and fear. "Chuck, what the _hell_ are you doing? You're going to get yourself killed. Leader is not a…reasonable man."

"Yeah, that guy doesn't just have a plate in his head, he's got a full set of china." Jill shushed him, rolling her eyes angrily. A man in a lab coat came into the room after climbing the stairs.

"Chuck, this is Dr. Foster, our chief scientist. He will take charge now."

Foster, a large man whose lab coat was clearly too small to ever be buttoned, led Chuck to the chair.

"Keep your eyes focused on the screen, Mr. Bartowski. What we will do today should only take a handful of seconds. We will remain here for a few minutes after it finishes, so that I can observe your reactions. This is quite an exciting day. Other than meeting the elusive Orion, I can't think of anything I have dreamed of more often than meeting the Intersect."

Chuck sat down. Jill and Foster stepped to the other side of the table. Foster entered some data and then pushed a button with a flourish. The screen in front of Chuck came on. Chuck turned the Intersect off.

* * *

Graham knew where she would be.

She would be at work soon. There had been men at her house, police cruisers passing by at irregular but frequent intervals. He couldn't do it there. Here; now. This was the place; this was the time. He had slipped into the back room of the museum. He knew her routine. She would come to the room to have coffee and plan her new display. Graham realized that although he had bought a gun, he did not need it. He left it in his belt. This needed to be intimate.

All around Graham were Greek statues, broken columns, and shards of pottery. Unopened boxes. A bust of Socrates. A statue of Galatea.

Graham heard heels. She was coming. He stepped back into the shadows.

Marge had a cup of coffee in one hand as she came through the door. In her other hand, she had a clipboard and a pen. She was a slight woman, striking even at her age, her hair black and laced beautifully with gray. Her face was lined with long-standing sorrow. She walked over to the statuary.

Graham surged from the shadows. His hands were icy and strong as they closed on her throat.

Her coffee splashed onto the statue of Galatea, warming it briefly, then pooling at Galatea's feet. Socrates watched calmly as the clipboard clattered to the floor and the pen rolled to Graham's feet.

Graham was strangling her with his eyes closed. She tried to scream but could not. Graham finally opened his eyes.

When he saw her, he tried to howl—and did. His head was coming apart, falling into the ruins its long cracking and crumbling had threatened.

Marge's eyes bulged. She struggled once more, desperately. Then she went limp in Graham's hands.

Graham realized he had been howling the whole time. He looked one last time at the body of his beloved wife, dead in his hands, by his hands.

He put her corpse down gently. He picked up the pen and he put out his eyes.

* * *

A/N2 I promise, my inky hand on my inkwell author's heart, that this is as dark as things will get. Doesn't mean we are going to be free of all angst, injury or death, but we won't face anything more like this. Graham had been headed here from the beginning.

A/N3 The Max Headroom stuff consists of bent borrowings from MH's appearance on David Letterman years ago.


	32. Chapter 31: Nursery Tales

A/N1 Well, ok. That was intense. Moving on. The fallout will begin to get sorted soon, but not in this chapter. Thanks for reading, reviewing and PMing.

* * *

CHAPTER 31 Nursery Tales

* * *

 _Word and work have their measure, and so does pain._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 81_

* * *

Alex McHugh was standing in the Orange Orange.

She had hoped to find Sarah there. But Sarah was not there. Alex was trying to decide if she wanted to have some frozen yogurt or just to head back to work, when a short, bearded man with an air of perplexed worry about him came in.

He walked past her, careful to give her space as he went by, but he did not really look at her. She wasn't sure he really noticed her. He got to the counter. The tall, thin young woman behind the counter, her nametag read 'Cheryl', spoke to him with familiarity.

"Hey, Morgan! How are you?"

"Not so good, Cheryl. How are you?"

"Not so good, either."

"Have you…ah…, " Morgan looked around and then whispered to Cheryl, "heard anything about, you know, the situation?"

"No, but we are hoping there will be news by late tonight."

Morgan nodded his head hopefully. He then looked at Alex and seemed really to notice her for the first time. He seemed angry with himself for not having acknowledged her from the beginning. "Cheryl, I need some froyo. And I believe this young lady does too. What's your pleasure…?"

Alex looked at him for a long minute. Was this an attempt to pick her up? It didn't feel like it. The bearded man seemed sad and seemed like he wanted to make someone else happy even if he couldn't be. She decided to smile at him, and that got her a kind smile in return. Something passed between them.

"Um, Alex. Alex McHugh. Sure, I'll have some too. But only if you tell me what I should have, and maybe have it with me." If he was going to try to make her happy, maybe she could do the same by talking to him, distracting him from whatever was troubling him.

"Now, that's a request I can fulfill. Let me suggest…"

Cheryl watched the two of them examining the bar of toppings and laughing at Morgan's ridiculous suggestions. She smiled as she turned to grab one cup and two spoons.

Sometimes you could see things click. Cheryl felt lucky to be present at the birth of something between Morgan and the small, auburn-haired woman, the woman who was now laughing as he explained his elaborate food pyramid for froyo toppings.

* * *

The night before his pancake breakfast with Jill, his first conscious night in captivity, Chuck spent a long time learning to turn the Intersect on and off. He had felt the possibility of it after driving to the Buy More earlier in the day. He felt relaxed and happy after breakfast with Sarah. He suddenly knew that he could do it, turn it off and on, in something like the way he knew he could blink his eyes. No one taught him how, no one told him he could; he just could. Except turning the Intersect on and off was a little more like fluttering your eyelids than just closing them. It required a little effort; it was not just a reflex, or as much a reflex, as a blink. He had not quite managed to turn it off before he got to work.

He sat up on the bed in the cell. He concentrated. He tried to turn the Intersect off. He failed. He tried again. There was a moment during which he was not sure whether he had done it or not, then he knew he had. He continued turning it off and turning it back on until he was sure he could manage it without really having to try.

He still wasn't sleepy. He bent down and pulled his bag out from where it had been scrunched beneath the edge of the bed. As soon as he touched the bag, he panicked: Sarah's letter! Chuck quickly opened the bag. Everything he had in it was still there. In among the sheets of paper in his yellow legal pad was Sarah's letter. He pulled it out. Still sealed. He looked around. He was almost certain there was no camera in his room, so he opened the letter:

* * *

 _Graham loaned me—I guess 'loaned' is the word—to an agent named Ryker. A cold, calculating bastard, Ryker. He was to be my handler. That was strange; I hadn't had a handler really since I had left the Farm. I had a variety of assignments over the years, some with partners, like Bryce, some with teammates, like a team I was on with Carina. (I will tell you about that sometime or maybe she will.) I had of course mainly operated lone wolf, answering and answerable to no one but Graham. I don't know why Graham loaned me out. Maybe Ryker had something on him. Leverage._

 _I arrived in Budapest and met with Ryker. It became clear to me that I was there as a hired gun. Ryker wanted to extract a package; rather, he wanted me to extract it. Or maybe he just wanted me to draw enough fire and to do enough damage that he could easily extract the package himself. He was that kind of guy. He would send me to die without a first thought, much less a second._

 _It is hard for female agents with male handlers. Some handlers take their titles literally. Ryker kept his hands to himself. He was completely absorbed by the package—by getting to it and getting it out. He kept me in the dark about what it was until I was face to face with it._

 _The package turned out to be a baby girl. When I realized that, I froze. I had not touched a child since I held the toddler on the plane to Paris. Holding that little boy had an effect on me. I just never let myself think about what the effect was or how it was made itself felt in my life. I picked up the baby girl and held her close in my arms. I tied her to me—so that I could keep her close to me. I fought my way out._

 _I fought hard for her. I fought harder than I had ever fought. I was fighting for something I thought I had forfeited the right to fight for—I was fighting for innocence. Not for the greater good, some bloated abstraction, but for the continued life and continued innocence of that one warm baby girl, squirming and crying against me in a hail of small arms fire. That innocence, that innocent, was precious to me. That innocence, that innocent was precious, period._

 _I got her out. I killed bad guys doing it. A lot. Mobsters. They were trying to kill me and would have killed her too_ _if I hadn't been better at killing. I got her out. I had been spared so that I could get her to safety._

 _I was not going to let Ryker have her. He wanted her because she was an heiress; I guess he had some plan to take her money. I hid her at a hotel with me. I called my mom for help. I knew nothing about caring for a baby. I held her close in my arms. I sang her lullabies. I couldn't let Graham take her. He might have given her back to Ryker for all I knew. And if he put her somewhere supposedly safe, Ryker might have been able to find a document trail._

 _So I called in favors; I called up friends. I found a way to smuggle her out of Budapest. I got her to the States and then to California._

 _I thought about running with her. I nearly did. I had money. I still have money. Alternative identities. I thought about being a mom—I imagined another life. Maybe for the first time, I tried to imagine leaving the CIA and doing something else. I always believed I was sentenced to die on a mission. No one would know but Graham. No one would care. Not much. Not even me. I did not think in terms of the past or the future. My present was always tense enough. There was always the mission. And the next mission._

 _But I started to try to imagine a future not defined by missions. A future defined by other things, even if I did not know what they were. I was out at the limits of my imagination. (Much like I was the night after I kissed you, Chuck, when I showed up at the Morgan Door.)_

 _I was guilty of too much to entrust myself with that innocent baby. I did the only thing I could think to do. If I could not be her mother, I would take her to mine. So, I did. I took her to my mom. I gave her to my mom. I asked my mom to give her the life I missed when I went with my dad. I liked the thought that someone would get the life I missed._

 _I miss that baby. Molly. Molly is her name._

 _The next mission turned out to be you, Chuck._

 _You taught me to imagine a different life and taught me how to do it. The life I now imagine, the life I hold close to me, is a life with you._

* * *

Sarah would have been biting her nails if she bit her nails. Instead, she watched the molasses seep of the early afternoon shadows to mid-afternoon length. Only a few more hours.

She sighed hard. What was going on in there? She and Chuck were so close to having a real future together. Beckman hadn't said so, but Sarah was virtually certain that unless Graham retook operational control, she would do away with the whole cover-dating complication. That would mean Team Bartowski could function while she and Chuck were a couple. She and Chuck could—if Chuck was willing—she thought he would be willing—move in together. She could get rid of that apartment that never seemed like home. Maybe they could find a place in Chuck's current complex. It seemed like home to her. They could be neighbors with Ellie and Devon! And…

And Sarah thought of Molly. She had been on Sarah's mind off and on since she wrote her letter about Ryker and Budapest and the baby—about Molly. She had been on Sarah's mind a lot lately. In fact, kids had been on her mind a lot since that letter about Paris. The little boy on the plane on the way to Paris, the terrorist's daughter, the different little boy—the one who looked like he could have been Chuck and Sarah's—on the plane to Reno, they had all been on her mind.

She had no idea how Molly and her mother were doing. Sarah had imposed a strict silence on herself. No contact of any sort. She had provided them with a signal, so that she could warn them in case of an emergency, but she hoped never to use that. In giving Molly to her mother, she had given up her mother as well as Molly. She hated that, because she and her mother had slowly, over the past few years, found their way to a tenuous relationship, something genuinely _mother and daughter_ , even if it were troubled by a bad history and a lot of still-fresh pain. Things between them had gotten to the point that Sarah was willing to ask her mom to take Molly in and her mom agreed.

The other night, after Morgan was read-in, as Sarah fell asleep in Chuck's arms, her thoughts had drifted into a fantasy, maybe into a dream. She might still have been awake, but she was on the edge of sleep, walking the border.

She dreamed that she accepted Chuck's proposal and that they had gone together and gotten Molly—that they had become a family. Husband and wife, father and mother and daughter. Then she had snapped back to consciousness. She had turned her head and looked at Chuck guiltily.

She had turned him down in Reno.

They had never talked about kids, other than a couple of momentary references. She assumed Chuck wanted kids. He seemed the most promising as a father of all the men she had ever met. But she had never asked him directly about kids. Of course, she hadn't. She had never asked herself directly about them either.

He told her he kept the ring, that the proposal was in a rain delay, so she hoped that she could one day maybe undo what she had done.

Would he feel the same though if a child were part of the deal, if Molly were part of it? Her mom took Molly happily, but Sarah could tell that her mom wished that Sarah would keep her—not because her mom did not want Molly, or was in any way unwilling to raise her, but because her mom knew that Sarah was...attached to the baby.

It was clear her mom thought Molly would be and already had been good for Sarah. Her mom also thought Sarah would be good for Molly. But that had been the sticking point for Sarah: Sarah did not think she would be good for Molly. But now, with Chuck in her life, with all that had happened, _maybe_ that had changed, or was changing?

She felt different from the way she had felt in the past, different not in degree but in kind. Her world itself was different. The problems she now faced shared no measure with the problems she had faced before Burbank.

She was still a spy—but not in the sense she had been before. As Sarah Walker, she did not feel like a spy with a cover, she now felt like being a spy was her cover. She was again planning a mission, but the mission was hers in a different sense than her missions before Burbank had been hers.

The words of her old life were still the words of her new life, but all their meanings had changed. It was as if all her words had been reborn.

The molasses seep of the shadows continued.

* * *

A/N2 Special thanks to Marc Vun Kannon for commenting on a draft of the Sarah letter featured in this chapter. Any failures, mistakes or uglinesses remaining in it in it are all mine.


	33. Chapter 32: Within the Tent of Brutus

A/N Jill answers some complicated questions in complicated ways (as we cross back over into the Land of Talk for a bit). Oh, and other stuff happens.

Thanks, everybody, for reading, for reviewing and PMing me! I've been so busy _scribble-scrabbling_ (my daughter's term, when she was little, for what dad was doing with his pen and paper, half-buried in books at his desk), I'm a bit behind on responses. I should catch up soon. Anyway, know that I do appreciate your thoughts and reactions.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 32 Within the Tent of Brutus

* * *

 _We are seeking ambitious men_

 _Who have captured the sheer fascination_

 _Of Marcus Aurelius_

 _Havelock Ellis and the Marquis de Sade._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 17_

* * *

Jill watched as Chuck looked at the screen. She could see reflected light playing across his face. His gaze had gone slack.

Jill was still angry. Why did Chuck antagonize Leader? Leader had to be handled with delicacy. But, and maybe this angered Jill most, it was so unlike her Chuck to antagonize anyone. Her Chuck was a bit of a wallflower, content to allow others the spotlight, to esteem them better than he esteemed himself. She doubted that was gone from Chuck's makeup, but he had changed. The softness and pliability she had always enjoyed in him, the passivity—they were still there, but underneath was a layer of true grit.

Jill wasn't sure if she liked that or not. Probably not. Her Chuck was always supposed to be her helpmeet, fashioned from one of her ribs. He was to be there for her, supporting her, cheering her on, but he was not supposed to outshine her. Back at Stanford, even when Chuck knew the answer before she did, he would not give it. If he did better than her on an exam, he hid that fact or explained it away. She was in the spotlight while he was in the wings.

He had done the same thing with Larkin, always allowing him to shine, talking him up, turning discussions from things he did better than Larkin to the things Larkin did well. He was a better student than Larkin by a large margin—never brought it up. He was kinder, far better at understanding the minds of others—never brought it up. He forged natural connections with people whereas Larkin struggled to make contact—never brought it up. Larkin was top gun while he was the wingman.

Part of it was that Chuck carried self-disbelief into all that he did. He was not focused on himself, and he genuinely did not believe he was special. So much that was bad had happened to him that he lacked the sense that almost everyone had, that sense that any good thing that happened was _deserved_. Chuck was always shocked when good things happened to him; he fell into a kind of wonderment. She recalled their first kiss, and Chuck's reaction—like the world had become all flowers. That memory—warm though it was, and warm though it made her feel—cooled her anger.

She thought she knew what had changed Chuck. It was that CIA exterminator, that whore, Sarah Walker.

The interface ended. Chuck blinked. He put his hand to his head and grimaced. Foster noticed.

"What's wrong?" Foster had his pen and pad at the ready.

"Uh. Blinding headache." Chuck winced as he rubbed his temples.

"Agent Roberts will take you back to your…room. You can rest for a while."

Jill took Chuck by the hand. She led him back to his cell.

* * *

Chuck knew he needed to pull himself together. He could get some mileage today, maybe tomorrow if need be, with the post-interface headache claim. But it wasn't going to keep Jill at bay forever. He also needed to get his anger at her touch under control. He didn't need to give that away, and redirecting the anger toward Leader was not a good plan, either.

They got back to his cell. Jill kicked off her heels and got on the cot, crossing her legs beneath her skirt, so that only her feet peeked out. Chuck flashed back to nights in college, after going dancing (well, she danced, he moved awkwardly beside her), when they would go back to her dorm room and talk. She would sit in the same posture. Those were good memories, despite what had happened later. He wished this moment wasn't likely to pollute them.

"So, Chuck, how's the head? Any better?" She seemed concerned but whether for his sake or hers was not entirely clear.

"No, but maybe if we can just sit quietly, talk, maybe it will feel better."

"Sure, Chuck, what do you want to talk about?" The question sounded open-textured, but her gaze was finely knit. "You choose."

"What happened at Stanford, Jill? Not just between you and me, although I would really like to understand that—but what happened there to bring you _here_?"

Jill swallowed a large breath and held it. She released it very slowly, silently. "That's a long story."

"Well, you said that after the interface, our time was our own. I don't have to be at the Buy More until later," Jill smirked in response, "so tell me the long story."

Jill looked at him again with her calculating gaze. Was she trying to decide which lies to tell, or to gauge the consequences of the truth? Chuck couldn't quite tell. He thought it was more likely the latter—after all, why fictionalize the account now? He knew the end of the story and many of its dark high points.

"My uncle is a Fulcrum agent—my mother's brother. I spent a fair amount of time with him growing up, but, of course, I did not know he was a Fulcrum agent then. I thought he was an insurance salesman." Chuck laughed grimly and Jill went on. "My family was financially comfortable, but, Bernie, my uncle, had a _lot_ of money. I liked and I still like…nice things. I wanted more than mom and dad could give me. Bernie showed me what I wanted. He and his friends belonged to exclusive clubs. His friends owned yachts! He had a gorgeous house on the ocean with views that never ended and a pool as blue as the sky. I grew up in a nice house—but nothing like that. We had a pool, but it was old and patchy and I had the chore of cleaning it. I wanted what Bernie had, and he showed it to me often enough that my desire for it became really strong.

"When I went off to college, I guess I had the vague idea that a Stanford degree would get me to a point where I had Bernie's life. But then it became clear to me that I could not pursue my intellectual passions and have that life. No researcher of my sort was likely to become really wealthy. We met and I thought at first that you were destined to be a software mogul or some billionaire. Eventually—don't take this the wrong way, Chuck—eventually, I realized that you just didn't have the killer instinct becoming one of those guys normally required. You might have lucked into it; you were so gifted with computers. But I didn't want to have to rely on luck. I did want you. So I started trying to think about how I could have you and Bernie's life.

"You'll remember," she said, sneaking a glance at him while rearranging her skirt on the cot, "after that fight we had I went on Spring Break by myself, without you?" Chuck nodded, that had been a bad time. "I went to Bernie's. I drank a lot and I cried to him a lot and he eventually told me about…an opportunity. It turned out to be Fulcrum. Bernie did not…represent the opportunity in full. It sounded good. I signed on, did some skulking around at school or other places nearby, as they needed me. I got paid and I had lucrative employment waiting for me when I finished. They would set me up so that my cover would allow me to pursue my intellectual passions diurnally (I did and still do some actual research), while I would work for the greater good in cloak, with dagger, nocturnally. It sounded too good to pass up. A few years, if I did well, and I could have the kind of life my 'insurance agent' uncle had.

"I found that I…liked the work, even excelled at it. I wasn't asked to do much that involved body bags, although I did some." She said that matter-of-factly, and Chuck suddenly felt a real headache coming on. "Mainly I did corporate espionage, seductions, that kind of thing."

"Seductions—I can guess what that means, " Chuck said, carefully playing dumb but understanding something that had long puzzled him, "so, you were on seduction missions while we were still together, like during the Fall Term of senior year, maybe on those _weekends with the girls_?"

Jill glanced up, and then her glance strayed around the room as if she were taking inventory of the other meager furnishings, the steel table, and the chair. "Yes." She said it simply, without much emotional coloring.

"And on these seduction missions, you…?"

"I did what was necessary to secure the mission objective."

Chuck closed his eyes and sat for a minute. "What did they do to make you do that, Jill? Did they threaten you? Your family? Me?"

"No, not at the beginning and not for a while, anyway, I was just good at those missions. They had nothing to do with us, Chuck. I was just an actress playing a part. It wasn't real."

"Jill, I don't mean to be mean, but I think you lack a robust sense of reality."

"What's that mean?" She was showing her teeth a bit.

"I mean that there are places where pretending and really doing are so much alike that no one can live on the margin of difference. If you slept with someone on one of those missions, then you did. You can say that you did not love him, you can say that you thought of someone else the whole time, you can say that your actual intention was to 'secure the mission objective'," Chuck couldn't keep acid from his tone, "but none of that means that you did not have sex with that man."

"But sex is just a physical act, Chuck, bodies in motion, rub-a-dub-dub, and glandular secretions: by itself it means nothing."

"Really, Jill? You and I were in the same Intro to Western Religion class. You remember...who was it? The Gnostics, the Manicheans?" She looked blank. She had not expected this turn in the conversation. "Anyway, the weird body/soul dualism? The idea that what the body does is one thing, what the soul does another? The idea that nothing the body did could touch the soul? That you can act with the body without acting with your soul? It got rejected it as a heresy, remember?"

Jill did sort of remember at last. That had not been her favorite class. She nodded hesitantly. "Whatever you may think about Christianity, it was right to reject that view, because if nothing else it is a heresy against healthy common sense. We can't divest ourselves of our bodies, of our bodily actions like that...

"...Look, let all that abstract stuff go, Jill, neither of us remembers it very well, I guess—take your actress comparison. Isn't the right parallel not the theater actress, but the porn actress, Jill? Someone who doesn't pretend to have sex, but _does have sex_ , for money? Irene Demova?"

"I didn't have sex for money, not really, I had sex for the greater good. You were—Chuck, you still are—the only man I have made love to."

Chuck froze in front of those words for a second, and then he went on.

"But, Jill, when you rely on the end to justify the means, you turn the means into a mere means. The means no longer have any independent significance, and you lose yourself, your integrity as a person…"

Chuck shut up.

All this was so long ago, and he wasn't Jill's judge; he wasn't even his own judge. He wasn't anybody's judge. This was all sounding too much like arguments he and Jill and their friends had after philosophy classes. Those were arguments worth having, but not now. He shifted his approach.

"Look, Jill. How did you think I would feel about what you were doing if I had known about it?"

"It would have made you miserable."

"So you knowingly chose to do what you knew would make the man you loved miserable?"

This time Jill froze in front of his words. After a while: "Yes."

"But, Jill, imagine I choose to do something I know will make the person I love miserable, and imagine that the thing I do is both legally and morally ok. Even so, if I choose to do it knowing the effect it will have on the person I love, what would you think of me?"

"That you didn't love her or didn't know what love meant."

They sat without further comment for a while, each staring at a different section of the concrete floor.

"So, why did you leave me and take up with Bryce?"

"Because I was starting to…resist the orders Fulcrum was giving me. I guess in my gut I was beginning to realize what you just made me say. That I was doing something that would make you miserable. By that time, they had a sense of how…talented I was. They gave me an ultimatum. End it with you or they would…hurt you. So I did. End it with you. Bryce was my consolation prize to myself. I knew he was in love with me. He had been since before he introduced you to me."

"Huh?"

"God, Chuck, you are so lovable but so blind to fault lines in people you care about. Bryce was into me from the beginning. I think he introduced us so as to end the temptation I was to him to have a steady girlfriend, a love life without a revolving door. After you, I was lonely and sad. I knew the fact of him would keep you from coming back. He was pretty and I knew he wanted me. He kept my bed warm, kept my loneliness and sadness a distance from me; he served a purpose. End of story."

Of all the things Jill had told him, that one struck Chuck the hardest. His head was hurting in earnest.

"And so, since then, what has your life been like?"

"Good, mostly, Chuck. There's always been a Chuck-shaped hole in it, but otherwise, I have risen in the ranks of Fulcrum. Once you were out of the picture, I was able to use my abilities fully, and I excelled at a life I admit I rather liked and still like. I even have that house, that house on the ocean with the view and the pool. I don't spend a lot of time there, but I just like knowing that I own it. We could go there together one day, Chuck…Dally in the pool…" Jill smiled, a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes.

"Well, nice as that sounds, Jill, my head is killing me. All this talk has made it worse, not better. I need to sleep for a while."

Jill got up and put her heels back on. Her dissatisfaction—with the conversation, with being asked to leave, barely concealed. "You never told me if you liked my dress, Chuck."

"I do. It's a duplicate of the outfit you wore to our first party at my frat, right?"

Jill beamed. "Yes, it is. You do remember. Remember more of what we had, Chuck, before it went sour. We could have it again." She darted in and kissed him before he saw it coming. She left the cell. Clang, click. And then he heard her heels going down the hall.

* * *

She was really pleased Chuck remembered her outfit as one like the one she wore to their first frat party together. Memories of her were still in his head, ready to come to Jill's present aid. She did feel sort of bad about one thing she said, the thing about sex, the physical act, meaning nothing. It always meant something to Jill. It was about satisfaction-and it was about power. With Chuck, it had a glow it did not have with anyone else, and she liked that glow (she rated it love), but even with him, it was also about satisfaction and power. So it was for everyone; she was just brave enough to face the truth.

As Jill walked down the hall, her thoughts turned back to Sarah Walker. Jill was confident she could get Chuck back, despite all that had happened between them. She was good at getting what she wanted. He would come around. She just needed to get Walker out of his head. It was really Walker that was between them. It was a good thing Jill found that letter while Chuck was still tranquilized. Opening a letter and then resealing it was Spycraft 101. Jill now knew there was something between Chuck and Walker. She also knew Walker's Achilles' heel—her other Achilles' heel, other than Chuck— _Molly_.

* * *

Sarah donned her body armor and the night vision tech.

She and Casey and Cheryl and Bob were going to go in. Bob was finishing getting ready, his night vision goggles squeezing the red curls on his head, his freckled face fixed in a solemn look that seemed alien to his features.

Cheryl was ready and she stood smirking at Bob as he squeezed into his body armor. Darkness had fallen. It was time to save Chuck. It was time to take the warehouse.

A sniper was in position on the roof of the house, ready to provide cover. Casey held up his hand. The four of them streamed out of the house and began to run silently in the dark.

* * *

Beckman wiped her mouth with an unsteady hand. She had been sick in the sink a couple of times. Luckily, the museum had a bathroom near the storage room. Beckman would never have made it any farther.

What she saw she would never be able to forget. Marge, sweet, small Marge, lying cold next to a breathing but catatonic Graham, Graham in a pool of his blood and her coffee. And his eyes! Well, she just couldn't think about that again or she would be sick a third time.

Her cryptographers had brought her the decoded pages from Graham's bible shortly before the phone call that resulted in her standing, shaking, in the bathroom. She had not had time to study them, but she knew she needed to go to Burbank.

The operation to save Bartowski would start soon. Assuming that was successful (God, let it be successful!), they had a lot to talk about. A new chapter was about to begin for Team Bartowski. Beckman was still locked in a two-front war—on one front was still Fulcrum, but on the other front was no longer Graham _per se_ , it was the Intersect itself.

In some important sense, it was the Intersect that strangled Marge.


	34. Chapter 33: Sour-Sweet

A/N I am under the weather. That may affect updates. Thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing and PMing. I should catch up with responses as soon as I feel better.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 33 Sour-Sweet

* * *

 _We will assist once again at the marriage of heaven and hell._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 1_

* * *

The largely abandoned warehouse district Fulcrum choose was unattended by streetlights. Darkness had fallen thick and heavy, like printer's ink.

Still, as the team sprinted across the street, their plan was at its most vulnerable. If they were spotted—if they made a mistake before they were able to get everyone inside—anything could happen, especially anything to Chuck.

It was crucial to get inside without raising any alarm. Sarah, Casey, and Cheryl were each angling for one of the three guards. They chose a moment when the guard walking the perimeter was blinded by the building to their approach. That guard was Casey's second target. Bob was going directly to the entrance—to pick the lock, if necessary, and to make sure no one decided to come outside who could unexpectedly change the odds or sound an alarm.

Sarah's guard saw her coming; she knew he would. Still, she was close enough. Without slowing, she fired her tranq gun. The guard crumpled. He hadn't had time even to raise his gun.

She looked at her watch. The glowing dial told her she had one minute before the power to the block was cut. (It was good to have the weight of the NSA behind you.) Sarah continued to run around the warehouse's side. There was a window on the second floor that was had no glass in it.

Old blueprints they consulted while they planned showed that there was a catwalk around the top of the main storage area in the warehouse. That catwalk was accessible from the window. Sarah now had 30 seconds. She needed to be in position. Casey's concession to her was that she would go in first; she was the one assigned to find Chuck. Her heart was pounding crazily, far more from fear than exertion.

She took the rope she was carrying like a bandolier off her shoulders and quickly swung the grappling hook end. She tossed it toward the window and it caught. In almost one motion she was on the rope and going up the side of the building. As she climbed, in the window she could see the dim glow of a light from somewhere inside the warehouse. Just as she grabbed the window and pulled herself to it, the light went out.

Sarah rejoiced that she had heard nothing. That must mean that the others had been able successfully to do what each needed to do.

Sarah swung up through the window and landed, cat-like, on the catwalk. She slipped her goggles down.

The world changed its aspect. The dark became greenly aglow. She stowed her tranq pistol and grabbed a knife from the sheath of knives fastened around her leg. She was here to save Chuck, but if Jill Roberts insisted on interfering, well…

Sarah heard cursing from below. Someone still awake was annoyed at the loss of power.

"Damn it. I wanted to see how that movie ended!" One voice.

"It was a Hallmark movie, ass; how do you think it ended?" Second voice.

Sarah worked her way across the catwalk and down a narrow stair that allowed access to the floor.

"Happily—and you're the ass—there's nothing wrong with happy endings!"

"Didn't some dead Russian guy say that all happy endings are alike, but each unhappy ending is unhappy in its own way? That's what's wrong with that channel. Always the goddamn same."

"God, you are such a cynic. Maybe the lights will come back on in a minute, you know, in the warehouse. But they'll never come back on in your soul, you black-hearted sonofabitch."

Sarah worked along the wall. She got into position to see the two men in the first room of the hallway. They had not seen her. So far, no alarm had been raised.

The two men were in a room at the near-end of the long hallway. There were a couple of other doors along it, closed, and then the hallway ended in a heavy door. Sarah knew in her gut: that final door—that was the door to Chuck.

She would have to get in and then get back out. That meant she was going to have to go down the hallway, get through the door, get Chuck, and get back up the hallway. She'd worry about the return trip once she had Chuck.

She moved as quickly as silence would allow. She reached the heavy door. The two voices were still arguing, still not suspecting anything other than a power failure. Once she got to the door, she was shocked to find it slightly ajar.

She reached out and touched the cold metal of the door carefully. Then she swung it open slowly. It made no sound. Inside, Sarah saw someone—Chuck!—stretched out on a cot, and someone—Jill?—seated in a chair beside the cot, staring at Chuck as he slept. Jill! Maybe it was the night vision goggles, but Sarah had seen few things that chilled her more than that staring nighttime vigil. She started silently through the door.

Sounds of struggle and gunfire issued from behind her. Casey and the others were in the building.

Jill stood up at the sounds, confronting Sarah in the dark. The room must have been dark even before the power went out; Jill had been sitting in the dark as Chuck slept. Jill's eyes had adjusted. She had a gun in her hand when she stood.

"Hello. Sarah, I assume? You are too late to have him, really, you know. I was first. He will never taste another woman, never make love to another woman, without comparing her to me. I am his standard. And you, you blond she-male, you are decidedly sub-standard. It's too bad you can't have him. I imagine you can't imagine your life without him."

Sarah knew Jill was going to kill her. She might kill Jill too, but that would be the most she could hope for.

Chuck rolled off the cot hard against the back of Jill's legs. She went down with an audible thump, Chuck on top of her. Her gun skittered across the floor.

Sarah reached down and grabbed Chuck's hand, pulling him to his feet. He grabbed his bag as she launched him into the hallway and followed, quickly slamming the door, locking Jill in the cell.

Chuck stumbled into the hallway and fell. He was, she knew, trying to find his way in the dark. She saw a figure come out of the rooms at the other end of the hallway and lower his gun at Chuck. It was the guy who hated happy endings.

She threw her knife and he went down. She grabbed her tranq gun and slipped from beside Chuck to in front of him as he got up.

Just as she did, an explosion shook the warehouse. She and Chuck were both knocked flat and singed by a cloud of flame that almost reached them.

The warehouse was ablaze, and seriously ablaze, instantly. Sarah's night vision goggles were blinding her; she yanked them off and tossed them. Chuck was ok. She grabbed his hand with her empty one and began moving down the hallway.

The warehouse was old and wooden. It was burning apace; the wood going up like kindling. They needed to get out, now.

Chuck pulled his hand from hers and went back down the hallway to try to save the Fulcrum agent Sarah had hit with her knife throw. He was not moving. He was dead.

Sarah grabbed Chuck again and pulled him forward. She heard more gunfire. Then she heard shouts. She finally recognized them as shouts of her name and Chuck's.

"We're here!"

The answer to Sarah's cry was another explosion.

Part the hallway's ceiling came down ahead of them. The falling debris was burning as it fell, but worse, so much of it fell that the hallway was blocked. The building had been rigged with explosives, and with some kind of accelerant. There was no way of knowing how many more explosives there were. The fire was spreading wildly, the old wood of the warehouse popping and sighing and singing as flame touched it and claimed it.

The only thing to do was to retreat to the cell. The heavy door might delay the flame for a while, might muffle any further explosions. It was far from an ideal plan, even if Jill Roberts were not inside the cell with a gun.

Sarah stopped at the door. Wordlessly, she stationed Chuck in the corner. In all the noise, the sound of the door would not noticeable. Sarah blinked. The door was ajar again. She pushed the door hard, following it as it swung with her tranq gun ready.

The room was empty. No Jill. No Jill anywhere.

Sarah was bewildered. She slammed the door shut behind Chuck after he came in. There had to be another way out, and she needed to keep the heat and flame off them. Chuck looked around, lost.

Sarah noticed that the metal table was pushed out from the wall. Sarah stepped to it. She looked at the wall. Nothing. She looked at the floor.

A section of the floor was sticking up, not quite even with the rest. Sarah wedged her fingers beneath it and pulled hard. It opened upwards. A trap door. Had it been pulled all the way shut, Sarah doubted she would have found it. She was unsure how it normally was operated, but she did not have time to figure that out.

She stared down into the darkness, barely able to make out the top of a ladder. All she knew for sure was that the smell coming up from below was foul, sewage. But there was nothing to do but to do it. She glanced at Chuck. "Follow me when I call you."

She mounted the ladder and went down as fast as she could. The final few rungs were in the sewage. As she stopped on the floor, the foul water was nearly at her knees. As far as she could tell, the sewer was deserted. "Chuck, C'mon!"

A moment later he was beside her, splashing down in the reeking water

"Shit!" Chuck yelped.

"Yes, it is." Sarah retorted.

"I didn't mean it like that." Chuck jibbed, and then laughed. And then gagged.

Sarah oriented immediately. She grabbed Chuck's hand again. They started sloshing laboriously through the brown, oily water. There was no sign of Jill, no way of knowing which way she had gone.

* * *

Casey had found Cheryl and Bob. Each had taken minor injuries from the explosions. Casey's hands and forearms were burned. He had tried to dig his way down the hallway before the blaze had become too intense. As much as it hurt him to do it, he had to give up on getting to Walker and Bartowski. He hoped they could survive long enough, assuming they were alive, for a rescue crew to get to them.

He and Cheryl and Bob ignored their injuries and pulled as many of the Fulcrum agents as they could from the building before it became a conflagration. They had called off the sniper. The Fulcrum agents who made it out on their own were all happy to surrender, so long as they could get away from the building.

Fire trucks arrived on the scene and a couple of ambulances. Casey stood with Cheryl and Bob and watched the building burn as medics tended to them.

He did a better job than either of them of keeping his face impassive, but he was burning inside along with the building. There had been no time for a rescue team to save Walker and Bartowski. He was tempted to go and shoot each of the Fulcrum survivors.

He heard a shout. He saw Walker and Bartowski, more or less uninjured, walking toward him. Bartowski was waving at him like a small child. He could smell them before they got to him—so he knew the story of how they had escaped, at least in part.

The five of them came together in a small circle in the blue flashing lights of one of the ambulances. Casey looked at Sarah. "Walker." At Bartowski. "Bartowski." She responded. "Casey." Cheryl looked at Bob. They grinned slightly at each other and then at everyone. Bartowski, who had been watching each person's response, smiled flatly.

"Nothing like the unfettered joy of a spy reunion."

Four sets of eyes rolled in response.

"So," Casey said, "is Roberts in there, I hope?"

"No, we got out using her escape route. We didn't see her or where she went, but we assume she got out ahead of us." The deep annoyance in Sarah's tone was obvious.

"Peachy."

* * *

Jill made it to the street.

It paid to plan. The rule of play in chess was a rule in the spy game too: develop your pieces early. She had the trap door installed when first came to town and was shown the warehouse as a possible base of operations. She'd had it put in at the same time the explosives and the accelerants. No one else knew about any of it but her and Leader.

She only had to push a couple of buttons on her remote from the cell—and bang! no more Fulcrum base. No Intersect technology left laying around for the NSA or CIA to find. She hated to waste the other agents, to trap them in the inferno the building had no doubt become, but, you know, omelets and eggs. From the sound of things, the battle inside had gone in favor of Walker's assault team.

Jill had been overconfident. She had not imagined that anyone could find Chuck. She wasn't sure how it could have happened. Shaking her head, she had pushed the buttons.

Of course, when she set off the explosives, she might have killed Chuck too. She had no choice but to run that risk. Her remote also locked and unlocked cell door. She had unlocked it and had seen Walker and Chuck still in the hallway. She then set off the explosive positioned at the hallway's end so as to force them back toward the cell. She escaped down the trap door.

She had left the cell door ajar and the trapdoor partially open. She had no guarantee that Walker would get Chuck out. But Walker was good. Jill hid in the sewers and saw Walker lead Chuck to safety. Jill then made her own way out of the sewers, taking a different direction.

Leader would not know whether Jill had gotten out or not. Not for sure, not immediately. That meant she had a couple of days, maybe three, to work her new plan.

If it all went well, by the time she contacted Leader to tell him she was alive, she would have Chuck again and Leader would be willing to overlook this small hiccup.

A handful of blocks away from the warehouse, she walked into a dicey-looking Grey Hound bus stop. Inside was a small collection of lockers, several of them broken. Jill went to one that was not. She unlocked it using a combination.

She grabbed a black backpack that was wedged into the locker.

She closed the locker and took her backpack to the restroom. A few minutes later she emerged in different clothes, plain and slightly ill-fitting, wearing a blond wig.

She'd been able to clean herself up. She put the foul clothes in a plastic shopping bag that had been in the backpack. As she left the bus station, she dropped the bag into a trashcan.

She would get Chuck back—capture him again. And she would get Walker back—make her feel the misery she deserved before she died.

Jill walked to the parking garage near the bus station. The car was still there, parked where she had parked it. She climbed in and started it up. She headed to Walker's apartment building. Between her backpack and the trunk of her car, she had all the equipment she would need.

* * *

Casey phoned Beckman to tell her that they had gotten Bartowski out. She ordered Walker to take Bartowski to Castle and stay there. There was a shower in Castle and clean clothes; they could wash up and rest. The beds in the holding cells were available. Hilda and Dee and Dum had been transferred out and into federal custody. Bob had overseen the transfer and refitted the cells.

Casey was to make sure that Walker and Bartowski were secure, and then he was under strict orders to get more careful medical attention for his burns and take the next day off. Cheryl and Bob were to get more careful medical attention immediately and then go home. Beckman would contact Walker and Bartowski at Castle in the morning for a full debrief. She planned to be in Burbank the day after tomorrow or the day after that. She still had a couple of loose ends to attend to in Washington.

* * *

Sarah drove Chuck to Castle in the rental car. They had to keep the windows down to deal with the odor, but they were so happy to be together that even the smell of sewage could not keep smiles from their faces. They held hands as often as she could while still driving safely. They did not say much.

When they got down into Castle through the Orange Orange, Sarah told Chuck to the take a shower. Casey showed up before Chuck went to the shower. Casey double-checked the sensors and alarms. He started up the stairs. He stopped partway.

"I'm glad you two aren't ash." He looked at them briefly with palpable relief in his eyes then went silently out of Castle.

"You know," Chuck said, grinning mischievously at Sarah, "when he's done with the spy game, he has a definite career in the greeting card industry."

Sarah smiled back. "Go ahead and get that shower. I want to hold you properly, Chuck, but it won't work if one or both of us is gagging. Yell when you finish."

Chuck grabbed towels and some clothes and headed to the shower.

* * *

Sarah sat down and let the tension that had been strangling her slowly radiate from her body. She could feel it in all her joints. They began to ache, a multiply located toothache that claimed her entire body. She heard Chuck's voice coming from the shower. He was singing, loudly and rather tunelessly. She knew he could sing well—although she had only heard him in the shower. But this seemed at the moment less about song and more about relief and gratitude.

She got up and went down the hallway to the door of the bathroom. As she drew near, Chuck's voice settled into the melody of the song, and Sarah recognized it.

He had been humming it on the way to Reno.

 _Humming  
_ _All the way to Reno  
_ _You've dusted the non-believers  
_ _And challenged the laws of chance_

Sarah's aches began to disappear, carried away by the song. She leaned against the wall of the hallway and listened, letting the words pull her out of herself.

 _You know what you are  
_ _You're gonna be a star…_

 _Wing  
_ _Is written on your feet  
_ _Your Achilles' heel  
_ _Is a tendency to dream_

Sarah thought about joining him in the shower, but she had plans for their first night back together and those plans were not plans involving squeezing into the small shower at Castle after a sewage dip. She was certain that she could not join him in the shower without making love to him.

No, she would wait.

Listening to him sing that particular song was bittersweet. Standing outside the door when she could be inside was bittersweet. But they were both alive and back together. For now, bittersweet was good enough.


	35. Chapter 34: Ad Bellum Purificandum

A/N I'm recovering. Thanks for the good wishes! A small chapter, this. But important. Thanks, everybody, for reading. Reviews are medicine.

Don't own Chuck or any product mentioned. No money made.

* * *

CHAPTER 34 Ad Bellum Purificandum

* * *

 _The disciple_

 _Turns over in his sleep_

 _And murmurs:_

 _"My regret!"_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 80_

* * *

Jill parked the car on the street and walked to the apartment building.

She had her backpack and a suitcase she had taken from the trunk of the car. She went to a side entrance and punched in the security code. The door beeped and Jill opened it.

She was tired but the stairs—as always—made the most sense. She climbed them slowly, keeping the noise she made down, so she could hear if anyone were coming. She got to the right floor and stopped. She peered carefully through the small window in the stairway door. No one was visible. She turned the knob and leaned her shoulder into the door. She got to the apartment door, stopped, swung the backpack around, and opened the small front pocket. She retrieved a key and opened the apartment door. She was virtually certain that Beckman would now have Chuck on lockdown in the Castle base they used. _Jill Roberts is still on the loose_. Yes, yes, she is. Jill didn't expect to run into Walker or Chuck, but she hurried nonetheless.

The door to the apartment opened and Jill stepped inside.

Larkin had obviously not spent much time at home. The place was neat—but as a department store display might be neat, not the way a home might be. Still, it would do. She knew Larkin spent nights without her in Castle usually, and if he came home, well, he was programmed; she could handle him.

This was a perfect place to hide. No one would look for her here. She enjoyed the oddness of hiding in a place the CIA was paying for.

But it was also the perfect place to be in other ways. She opened up the suitcase. Besides a couple of outfits, it was full of spy ware and weapons. She grabbed a gun and loaded it. She had not retrieved hers after Chuck's tackle knocked it from her grasp in the cell.

She then grabbed her burner phone and called a few Fulcrum contacts, loyal to her. Contingency plans were soon underway. She called another, a mole in the CIA. The mole's only relevant information was that Bryce Larkin was in the clinic in Burbank, suffering from delusional episodes. At least he wouldn't be coming to the apartment soon.

Something had gone wrong with the programming, obviously. She had been worried about Bryce's feelings for her. They were problematic. The programming and emotions tended to work together in unpredictable ways. Maybe that was how they how realized she was in town and that she had taken Chuck—although she still could not understand how they had found the warehouse. All she could think about that was: _mistakes must have been made_.

She began to set up the equipment she needed to listen to everything going on in Walker's apartment. When she was finished, she raided Bryce's fridge and cupboards. Not much, but enough. She ate, thinking through more contingency plans as she chewed.

* * *

Chuck called Ellie from Castle while Sarah was in the shower. She had handed him her phone and told him to do so as she headed back. Ellie was a bit insane for about three minutes or so, and then she finally calmed down. Chuck told her he would see her in person as soon as he could. He made her promise to call Morgan. Chuck would have called himself, but he was fading fast. He had not been able to sleep with Jill sitting in his cell, staring at him in the dark. He had never realized that pretending to sleep was such hard work. But, of course, he had never realized it because he had never had to do it for several hours. He had been certain that if Jill realized he was awake, she would join him on the cot. That would end with her realizing that Chuck was not open to them…reestablishing themselves as a couple. And that would take away one of the few cards to play Chuck had. Thank God Sarah had found him, the team had found him!

* * *

He was in one of the holding cells getting ready to sleep when Sarah walked in. She was wearing non-descript pajamas, but she made them look amazing. He hadn't really had a chance to just look at her since she had come into his cell in the Fulcrum warehouse.

She was simply the most amazing person he knew. Yes, she was so beautiful that sometimes he had to fight back an urge to shield his eyes when he looked at her. But it was Sarah—the woman, brilliant, complicated, omnicompetent, capable of hardness but also of such gentleness—it was Sarah he loved, not her beauty.

He thought of a line from Raymond Chandler's _Playback_. To a woman astonished that he is both hard and gentle, Phillip Marlowe quips: "If I wasn't hard, I wouldn't be alive. If I couldn't ever be gentle, I wouldn't deserve to be alive." Yes, there was something of Phillip Marlow about the woman he loved—but so much more too.

She had stopped and was watching him look at her. She shook her head.

"What?"

"Sometimes I wonder who you see when you look at me like that, Chuck. I'm not complaining—being looked at the way you look at me is…a gift. It doesn't just make me want to be better; I believe it actually makes me better. As long as I'm with you, Chuck, I'm good."

Chuck sat down on the bed on one side of the room. There was another on the other side. He looked back up at Sarah after he sat down.

"You know, ever since I got the Intersect I have figured I'd eventually end up in a cell below ground somewhere. I sometimes hoped maybe they'd at least let you visit. I never dared imagine that there'd be two beds in the cell."

Sarah had crossed the room as he spoke. She grabbed the single bed and slid it across the floor. Chuck lifted his legs as she slid the bed up against his. She was smiling at him.

"Two beds, Chuck?"

Chuck laughed. Sarah's countenance became serious.

"Are you ok? Did they—did she—hurt you?"

"I'm fine, Sarah. I'll tell you it all tomorrow. I'll have to tell Beckman anyway, and after I tell her, I will tell you anything more you want to know. But right now, " Chuck yawned, "I would like to sleep with my girlfriend, who, I trust, is too tired to spend her night staring at me in the dark."

Chuck noticed Sarah flinch. "That was creepy, Chuck. She has some kind of hunger for you, Chuck, and it is a…dark hunger."

"Tell me about it. I spent a couple of days on the spit, roasting in preparation."

Sarah sighed. "Don't tell me any more. Let's not talk about spy stuff for a while. Hold me. Let's get some sleep. I just want to be beside you." She climbed into the bed. Chuck clapped his hands.

"Uh, don't get too excited, Chuck, You just said you are tired, and I am too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to do anything more than hold you and be held by you. That shower finished me."

Chuck shot her a sheepish glance. "Oh, no, Sarah. I get it. And I am overjoyed to be sharing a bed with you tonight. But I wasn't clapping about that. I just figured with all the high tech stuff down here, they would have installed a Clapper."

Sarah looked at him, not understanding.

"You know, clap-on, clap-off, the Clapper…?"

He smiled and climbed out of bed to turn off the light, laughing to himself. "Never mind."

* * *

Leader did not know what happened. The warehouse was there one moment, housing the Intersect, and then it was gone, a black, smoking ruin. No agents had reported in. Was the Intersect dead? Was Roberts dead?

Leader turned off the monitor that faced her, the one that showed her what her animated, projected face looked like to those watching it. The false face that she knew to be false and that yet seemed to her to be her real face. The other face, the one that existed outside the monitor, that was the face of a woman she did not know. She saw that face reflected in the darkened screen of the monitor. As always, that face made her anxious, uncomfortable—a little terrified. She couldn't stand it. She turned the monitor back on. She relaxed. There, there was her true face. It had been a bad day, but Leader smiled his death's head smile—mainly for herself.

* * *

Beckman forked the last bite of her pancakes, then stopped mid-bite, to stare at the bite. "Pancakes!" She was musing to herself, but Rose, also finishing her breakfast, looked at her curiously.

"What is it, Aunt Becky?"

"Nothing. Just thinking about how much can turn on something we do or say or like. We live in a world of objects, and we are tied to those objects by desire or fear or other emotions and states, and no matter how much we try, our being tied to those objects means we always fit into the world in some way. And the way we fit—those things we fear and desire and so on—they always give us away, reveal us, and betray us. That's one reason why it is impossible to fool all of the people all of the time. Even a spy's life has to conform to what Samuel Johnson once called "general nature"; a spy cannot ever stop being a human being. At the worst, all a spy can be is a complete failure as a human being but that is still a way of being human."

"That's mighty deep for a woman with a second mug of coffee and an impressive stack of pancakes in her stomach." Rose smiled gently as she said it.

Beckman had begun to rely on Rose. It wasn't that Rose knew more than the CIA psychiatrists who had treated Larkin or Graham, but Rose, despite being a psychiatric nurse, saw the whole person, the whole existential predicament, and not just the illness or incapacity. Rose was once again attending to Graham. Graham had not spoken, not awakened. The doctors were pessimistic about him ever being conscious again. In the terms of Graham's lead doctor, a truly brilliant man, Beckman knew—in his learned terms, "Graham's mind snapped."

Well, so it clearly had. Beckman didn't need a psychiatric degree from Michigan to figure that out. She had seen Graham beside his wife's corpse, seen all that he had done. When the ancient Greeks saw _Oedipus Rex_ they all knew at the end that Oedipus's mind snapped.

Rose had listened while Beckman told her the story of Graham, as Beckman now understood it. She was still trying to get it all straight. She knew some details would probably forever remain unknown or unclear. She wanted to know Rose's reaction to the story, given that Rose had seen the ending, so to speak.

"Well, I needed to say something during your long silence after I asked you about what you made of Graham's story."

Rose blew out a breath. "That story is hard to make sense of, Aunt Becky. So Graham manages to expose himself to the earliest working form of the Intersect. He knows he did so, at first, but thinks it did nothing to him. But it did, and one of the things it did to him eventually was take away his memory of downloading it. Or, rather, maybe, it twists that memory unrecognizably into an obsession with the Intersect. So that the man spends a large chunk of his life chasing the Intersect that he already has. Over the years, it slowly erodes his mind. In particular, it interacts badly with his strongest emotions or character traits—it fights against his love for his wife and it way, way amps up his already considerable egotism. Is that roughly right?"

Beckman nodded.

"Ok. Well, I don't know what to say exactly, except weird, scary things. Like this: this early version of the Intersect seems to have the following properties: it makes anyone who has it obsessed with it, an obsession that seems to worsen over time. It also seems to twist anyone who has it into a caricature of himself or herself. Idiosyncratic features exaggerated, others downplayed. It is both a creator of madness and a destroyer of brains, a psychological and physical disaster.

"I take it that Bryce Larkin has been exposed?" Beckman nodded again. She hadn't told Rose that—she had wondered if Rose would draw the conclusion. "He hasn't had it for long, though, so the damage is far less advanced or pronounced?"

"Right. We think that the technology can be reversed. But we don't have this early form of it, so we can't yet help Larkin."

"You want to know the scariest thing about all this—remembering, please that I am generalizing from a very small sample, and that is not a safe method, normally—the scariest thing about all this is that this version of the Intersect seems to want to… _reproduce_ —or something like that."

"Damn."

"What is it, Aunt Becky?"

"That's what I thought and what my CIA research leader thought when I told him what I told you. I was hoping that I was just getting old and that my imagination was enfeebled, and that he was having a bad day."

"What else did he say?"

"He said this early version is a parasite, as it were, feeding on and distorting the human mind and human brain."

"Graham was food for something, it seems. The Intersect took an overly ambitious, ego-driven man and made him monomaniacal and homicidal. Even worse, it tormented him into killing the one thing he loved. That's Geek tragedy right there, or some kind of Apple MacBeth."

"Damn." Beckman smiled at the black humor through her curse.

"What?"

"I had been thinking of Oedipus."

"Hard not to, really. Hard not to."

Beckman picked up her coffee and sipped it. She hadn't noticed the waiter refill it from a fresh pot. It burnt her tongue as she drank.


	36. Chapter 35: Frustration and Excogitation

A/N Feeling much better. Thanks for the kind wishes. Thanks too for reviewing. If you are out there still reading but haven't reviewed this or haven't in a while, let me hear from you, please. I like having a sense of who is reading. It is one of the rewards of this site.

I know this story is its own sort of thing. I have an enamored fascination with words, and especially with human character and motives. But action, so-called, as much as I enjoy writing it, only interests me insofar as it stands in meaningful relationship to the characters and their motives. I suppose witnessing two people, say, shooting guns at each other, is exciting, but it lacks any depth unless I have some idea of who is shooting at who and why, some idea of what the shooters stand to gain or lose (beyond the obvious). In the terms of my field, I want action that stands in internal relations to those performing the action, internal relationships that are open to survey. (And now you know why you don't want my job, I'm guessing.)

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 35 Frustration and Excogitation

* * *

 _My own center is the teeming heart of natural families._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 72_

* * *

Chuck and Sarah got up and got dressed. They ate cereal together because there was not much else in Castle to eat.

Each knew what the other was thinking about, what the other wanted. Each wanted to go back to the holding cell and do more there than hold the other. But there was not time—and Sarah was determined to wait until they had a chance to talk and she had a chance to prepare for the…event.

So, there they found themselves, antsy and anxious, at the central table in Castle, full of cereal but unsatisfied, and unable to touch each other because neither could keep his or her hands from wandering. If anyone had been listening, they would have heard a soundtrack of soft, stymied sighs.

Promptly at 9 am, Castle time, the monitor glowed to life and General Beckman was ready to debrief them.

She asked about what had happened to Chuck. He started with waking up at the warehouse, but Beckman wanted to know about the abduction.

"Ah, uh, well, I went to the wrong apartment at first. Then I realized I was supposed to go next door. The door was open. A woman's voice told me to get started. I was opening a TV box when I heard my name. I turned around and there was Jill Roberts."

"I assume she had a gun on you?" Beckman asked rhetorically.

"Um, no. She didn't have anything on me or anything on her." Sarah turned blue eyes on him that would have made glaciers look comparatively cuddly. "I mean she had on a towel, but not much of a towel. You know, not a beach towel but not a washcloth. More like a hand towel—but she wasn't using it on her hands. She was covering, " Chuck made sweeping, insistent gestures over his chest and abdomen, "herself with it. She was _covered_. But she wasn't covering me, you know, with a gun."

Sarah spoke, a dangerous conjunction: "And?"

"And I was shocked to see her and to see her like that and she walked up to me and I froze and she tranquilized me. Really!"

Sarah kept him in the arctic freeze of her gaze for a few seconds more, until Beckman cleared her throat. "And, I take it, you remember nothing more until you awoke at the warehouse."

Chuck was now staring at the floor, so he missed the smirk that crossed Sarah's face as he struggled, discombobulated. Beckman saw it, however, and she and Sarah shared a significant and amused look.

"So then what…Chuck?"

At Beckman's use of his name, Chuck looked back up. Sarah smiled when she heard it.

"They were going to use their Intersect technology—Jill called it an 'ancestor technology' to get, not the Intersect itself, but the NSA and CIA data it works on, out of my head." Chuck paused, weighing how much of Team Piranha's work to expose. He decided to wait to expose it until he talked to Sarah and Ellie about it all. "They never got the process underway successfully, so I never gave them anything."

"Did they try to use it on you?"

"No, they couldn't seem to get the program to do what they wanted." Chuck winced inside—he hated to lie, but he did not know if he could share the truth with Beckman. She seemed a friend, but would she be willing for him to work toward getting rid of the Intersect? And what he said was more misleading than false—even if such a distinction carried a whiff of casuistry.

"What else happened while you were there?"

"Not much, honestly. Jill wanted to…talk about old times. I assume you know she was my girlfriend at Stanford?"

"Yes, I know that. She was involved with Larkin there, correct?"

"Yes."

"And she was involved with him again here, over the past few weeks?"

"Huh?" Chuck looked at Sarah.

"Bryce is back in the clinic, Chuck. Jill programmed him with Fulcrum's Intersect, and it has messed with his head. He's confused. He is also in love with Jill, even though—for maybe the second or even third time, I think—he wishes he wasn't."

Chuck now knew why he had seen a reaction in Jill to his mention of Larkin in their talk. She had just freshly seduced Larkin. _Freshly_. Chuck frowned, his features grim.

"Will he be ok?"

"He will—if we can get hold of Fulcrum's Intersect. We believe it can be taken out."

"Right. Jill told me that too. They can get theirs out. At least, she clearly believes they can."

"How about Leader, Chuck? Did you interact with Leader?"

Chuck was silent for a minute. "Chuck, Leader?"

"Yes, General, I heard you. I'm just not sure how to answer. I talked to Leader, but not in person, exactly. Leader was a talking head on a TV—a cross between Satan and Max Headroom. If I had seen him again, I thought I might call him Max Hornroom." Chuck laughed and waited. Beckman just looked at him impatiently.

"So, anyhow, I talked with Leader in real time. I assume that the talking head was some kind of projection, keyed to an actual human being's face and head. My impression was that Leader is a few syllables short of a haiku." Chuck made a circling motion with his finger by his temple. "Crazy."

"Oh, and seriously interested in the Intersect—in a Captain-Ahab-Moby-Dick-He-Tasks-Me, He-Heaps-Me kind of way." Chuck got up and mimed walking with a stump. Sarah laughed behind her hand. "Crazy! But scary too."

"Did they mention Orion to you, Chuck?" Beckman looked at him closely. He sat back down.

"Yeah, uh, yes. They don't know who he is, but they believe he created the Intersect in various versions. Some kind of mysterious, super high-tech computer guy."

"Do you have any idea who he might be, Chuck?"

"What, me? Why would I know? I fix computers and play video games, but I am no super computer guy. I'm more like a circuitry handyman."

"Well, I should be in Burbank the day after tomorrow. Do you two know about Graham?"

Both Chuck and Sarah shook their heads. "He attacked and killed his wife, " Beckman began.

"Marge? Oh, no." Sarah had gone white.

Chuck looked disturbed and confused. "Someone was married to…Graham?"

"There's more to tell you about that, and more to tell you about Graham. But I want to tell you that in person."

Pause. Pause. Pause.

"Have we gotten any information on Roberts, yet, General?" Sarah asked.

Beckman held up a piece of paper. "I just got word that Roberts' credit card has gotten two hits, heading westward out of California and into Arizona. There were charges for gas near the border, Desert Center, and another deeper in Arizona. We also have a photograph from a surveillance camera in the Arizona gas station."

Beckman punched a button and a photograph of a woman slim woman in a red hat and sunglasses came onto the monitor. The photograph was grainy and the angle less than perfect, but it certainly looked like Jill.

"What do you think, General? Is that Roberts? Allowing hits on her credit card seems rather amateurish."

"'Yes, it does," Beckman said, "but Jill is a strange combination of professional and amateur. She is clearly highly regarded in Fulcrum. She victimizes Larkin, who is no fool, slickly manages the abduction of Chuck—all that testifies to her being a pro. And then she undoes her work because of a taste for particular pancakes. I admit I can see how she might have thought no one could have known about that, but it is an odd quirk to have indulged at such a time."

"Especially since those pancakes aren't any good," Chuck added, "especially cold. Even Morgan doesn't like them."

Beckman chuckled. Chuck was clearly a bit manic, still processing the last few days.

"I don't know, Sarah. Has Jill run? If I were going to guess, I would guess Jill _is_ on the run. The whole warehouse business was a massive fail. We don't know much about Leader, but we do know that he does not tolerate failure. Fulcrum is not what you would call a second-chance organization. Jill may be running not just from us, but from Leader too. "

Sarah's eyes narrowed but she did not disagree.

"I am canceling the order for the two of you to bunker in Castle. But, Sarah, _do not let him out of your sight._ " Beckman smiled giving that order and Sarah beamed at hearing it. Beckman continued.

"Let me finish up by saying something to both of you. _The cover dating is over_. I know you are a couple. Casey knows it. Larkin knows it. You may really and truly date, assuming that is what you want to do, no pretense about it.

"I believe Team Bartowski is as good as it is because of what you two have. So, let's have no more pretending. You have my blessing—for what that's worth. And my apologies—for whatever role I have had in making things harder than they needed to be. Take care of each other. I will see you both in person soon. " Beckman ended her transmission.

* * *

Chuck turned to Sarah, his whole posture apologetic. "So, Sarah, about Jill and the towel. Sorry. And sorry too for what Jill said. Yes, she was first, but she is not my standard; she was first, but you are the _last_ …if you want to be. You are the one."

Sarah took a minute to let what he had said sink into her heart. She would respond to the implied question, but not now—so she chose to respond to the towel.

Sarah walked to him and put her hand on his chest. "We're good, Chuck. I trust you. And, never, ever forget, the worldwide textile industry, in its long and varied and colorful history, has yet to make a towel in which Jill Roberts would look better than me." She smirked as she watched Chuck parse that long sentence—and finally smile when he had done it.

"I will not forget, Sarah—but maybe…an occasional refresher course would be in order?"

"Just promise to sing for me in the shower, Chuck. And you will see me in a towel and out of a towel."

Chuck found no words adequate for response to that.

* * *

Sarah gathered her things to leave Castle. Cheryl and Bob were both fine—their injuries were not serious, cuts and bruises and minor burns—so they would tend to the Orange Orange. Casey had told Big Mike that Chuck had gotten ill after the home install (Jill's fake one) and that he had to stay home for a few days, doctor's orders. She and Chuck had the day to themselves.

But as she waited for Chuck to get his stuff together, Sarah recalled Jill sitting at Chuck's bedside, staring at him. The room had been dark, and Sarah had been wearing night vision goggles, but that scene struck her as revelatory. She had never met Jill but she had heard about her from Chuck, from Morgan, and from Ellie. The portrait they had painted was not of a dangerous woman, but that is what Jill was, dangerous. Not dangerous, though, in quite the same sense as Hilda.

Hilda was a professional—even her desire for revenge on Chuck, although no doubt a desire that involved Hilda's ego, was a _professional_ desire. To command her fees, Hilda needed to be an assassin who was not only feared but who left no loose ends. Sarah understood that—too well. Jill was dangerous. She was talented and smart. But she was serving a need, a _hunger_. A hunger that trumped her professionalism. Sarah had been with her con-man father long enough to know how hungers, especially deep and dark ones, worked. She knew hunger even in the green glow of night vision goggles. Jill _wanted_ Chuck. No doubt that hunger involved sexual desire, perhaps it even had a romantic cast to it, but it was ultimately about possession. Her father had radar for people like that, and the man had trained Sarah.

Beckman thought Jill had run—that made sense, given the data Beckman had. But Sarah had seen Jill's vulturine vigil: Jill wanted to _own_ Chuck, _needed_ to own him. The woman on that vigil was not going to leave town without Chuck. At the end of the day, Jill was not really a Fulcrum agent, not really loyal to whatever slogans it was that Fulcrum fed its people. Jill was in this for herself—and the thing she wanted most was Chuck. Jill was still in town—Sarah was sure of it. She and Chuck might have the day to themselves—but they were going to need to be careful. Sarah would have to be vigilant.

* * *

They took her Porsche and she told Chuck she wanted to get some air after being shut in Castle. She suggested the beach, his spot on the beach. Chuck smiled in agreement.

On the way, Chuck told her the full story about his time in the warehouse, including the details he had left out not only about the Intersect (that he had figured out how to turn it on and off) but also about his conversations with Jill. Those conversations saddened and angered Sarah, mostly for Chuck's sake, but a little for Jill's too.

Sarah knew the complicated trap of the spy life. It seemed a life of rare freedom—no ties, exotic places, and exciting covers to take on. But it was a life that quickly closed around you, the cost of your freedom an ever-increasing rootlessness, insensitivity, and emptiness. After a while, the freedom was artificial because there was so little left of you to be free. She could see how Jill would grasp at Chuck as a way back to the more genuine freedom she had when they were a couple in college. The trouble for Jill was that the nature of her hunger for Chuck would prevent her from allowing Chuck to help her in the ways she dimly realized she needed help.

Sarah could sympathize with that.

What did Chuck say Jill said? _That she had a Chuck-shaped hole in her life_. What Jill did not understand was that she could not just plug Chuck into that hole, holding the rest of her Fulcrum life in place. The cost of plugging Chuck in would be razing that life and starting over. Sarah had only gotten clear about that herself in the past weeks. Chuck was not a puzzle piece for a spy's life, he was dynamite.

* * *

They got to the beach. Sarah surprised Chuck by having preparations for just such a stop in the car. She had a blanket, bottles of water, sunscreen and even a radio. Chuck smiled broadly at it all, and Sarah blushed. "I like it here and I decided to be ready to come here at a moment's notice."

They found a place in the sand to spread their blanket. The beach was not empty, but it was not crowded. There were mostly families with small kids and a few retirees out walking along, just beyond the reaching fingertips of the waves that came in. The day was sunny and cloudy.

Sarah looked around them carefully. She had been keeping an eye out for tails on the way and had seen nothing that worried her. The fact that Jill wanted Chuck simplified things for Sarah since Jill would be angling to abduct him again, not kill him. That eliminated various sorts of worries. She saw nothing around them on the beach that was a cause for concern. So she relaxed—as a spy.

And then she became nervous—as a woman.

Chuck was staring out at the water and toward the horizon. She realized that he had been in cells for the last few days. He needed the open and the blue in the air more than she did.

"Chuck, you remember that when we were here together after that first night, I asked you to trust me?"

He nodded. He turned toward her. "I want to tell you that _I trust you_ , Chuck. Completely. Proving that was one reason I was writing the letters. I am done writing the letters now. I believe you know me. And you have not gone away, run away from me. I can tell you these things in person now. If you, Chuck, can live with who I have been, then I can too; I am already beginning to.

"You warned me to be careful or I would turn into a real girl. _I have_. I'm not a normal real girl—if you know what I mean—but I am real. If you prick me, I bleed. If you make jokes, I laugh…If Fulcrum takes you, I nearly lose my mind."

She grabbed Chuck in an intense hug. He stroked her hair and kissed her head. "I knew you would come for me, Sarah. I never lost faith in that for a minute. I knew I just had to stay in one piece long enough for you to do it."

"I will _always_ come for you, Chuck. If I don't save you now, I will save you later. Don't forget that." Sarah's face was at once soft and fiercely determined. "I love you, Chuck Bartowski."

"I love you too, Sarah Walker. Sarah, can I tell you something, just so we are clear?"

"Sure." Sarah's tone was slightly wary.

"I want you. I want a family. I want kids. If you…want Molly, Sarah, so do I."

Sarah dropped her head. She still sometimes forgot that Chuck could find his way among her not-fully-acknowledged emotions the way she could among shadowy city streets.

She picked up her head and looked at him.

"I do miss her, Chuck. Even though I know my mom will do—is doing—a great job raising her, I can't help but feel like she is my responsibility, that she is…mine. Does that sound crazy to you? I mean coming from _me_ of all people, the woman without a home, without a family, without a life?"

"No, Sarah. It does not sound crazy to me at all. And you have a home, a family, and a life. You have people around you who know you and who admire and love you. Me, for one, Casey, Ellie, Devon, Morgan—and judging by this morning, I think Beckman belongs on the list. I think she cares about you, Sarah."

"Thanks, Chuck. I just—maybe this _will_ sound crazy—I just know that what I went through in saving her somehow seems to me like giving birth to her. I feel a bond there. I've not been able to shake it. It's just real, it's just _there_."

Chuck nodded, a hint of a smile on his face. "None of that surprises me, Sarah. If I had known the story earlier, the only thing that would have surprised me would have been your feeling another way. You need to face it: the only person who knows you who ever thought you were heartless was you. Why do you think Ellie never guessed that you were a spy or something like that, given all the data she had? Ellie's a brilliant woman, Sarah. She could have put it together. Except that she knew you, not some cover-you, and you did not seem like a spy. You seemed like a good woman, in love with her brother but troubled by something. Look, my point is that the way you feel about Molly is not out-of-character for you. It might be _out-of-cover_ —but who cares about that?"

 _So is Agent Walker your cover now?_

 _Yes._

Sarah sank against Chuck with a small smile on her face. She sighed contentedly. While looking out at the water, out at the horizon, she asked: "So, Chuck, what do we do about all this? You, me, the Intersect, the CIA, Molly… _Reno_?"

Chuck circled her in his arms, cradling her gently. He did not answer for a while, and she just enjoyed his warmth against her back and neck.

"You know how I feel about all that, Sarah, because you know how I feel about you. I'm happy to wait for you to figure out how you feel about it all."

Sarah sat up and turned to Chuck so that he could see her eyes. "And you know how I feel about you, so you know how I feel about all that. I—no, we—may need to figure out how to make it out of the insane maze we are in, but I want out of it, and I want to be with you, and I think I would like us to have Molly."

Chuck brushed her hair from her face where the wind had left it. He looked into her eyes. "Then let's make our life, Sarah, our real life, _happen_. That's always been my real mission. " He looked suddenly bashful, but she smiled him past his bashfulness.

"It's my real mission too, Chuck. Let's head back to my apartment. I have some food there we can have for lunch. And maybe we can take one of those Tahoe naps."

Chuck's grin stretched from ear-to-ear.

Sarah leaned in to whisper a final comment: "After we've done something to earn it."

Chuck's eyes glazed over above his grin.

* * *

Jill was frustrated.

She had expected Chuck and Walker back at the apartment today and had hoped they would be there early. Her Fulcrum contacts had done their jobs. There was a trail, apparently hers, leading away from California into Arizona. That should have been enough to get them out of Castle. But where were they? Jill wanted to figure out two things before she took Chuck from Walker, took him for good.

One, where, exactly, was this Molly? Sarah's letter contained some specifics, but they did not add up to a location, except in the sense that _probably somewhere in California_ was a location. Jill had used her CIA mole to find Ryker. She had taken time this morning to establish cloaked contact with him. But, although he was obviously eager to help, and eager to know who Jill was and how she was involved, it was clear he had no information that, added to Jill's, would pinpoint any location. She needed to get into Walker's apartment. Maybe the crucial missing piece would be in there.

Two, what, exactly, was the relationship between Chuck and Walker? Chuck had said nothing about her, but he was different from her Chuck, the Chuck at Stanford. Jill was willing to bet those changes were because of Walker. Chuck probably thought he was in love with her. But what about Walker herself? Bryce had told Jill that Walker was Chuck's handler and he was her asset. _Boyfriend/girlfriend_ was their cover. Jill knew how things went between handlers and assets. She had seduced enough assets, handled enough assets, to know that sometimes the line between cover and reality got hard to discern.

She had seduced assets who turned out to be talented lovers, men who also gave her gifts chosen with discerning taste, and she had become…fond of some of them. She had become fond enough to make her time in their bed, and her reactions to their caresses, free of real faking.

Although it enraged her to imagine Chuck abed with that CIA slut, she had to accept that Walker had almost certainly seduced Chuck. Walker was beautiful, even if completely not Chuck's type. Chuck liked gamine brunettes. She, Jill, had set that standard for him. Why he would respond to that blond brute of an Amazon was past telling. Maybe he had just been lonely. After all, Jill had broken his heart. Maybe she could, at least should sympathize a little with his decision to sleep with Walker.

Well, if they ever got back to the apartment, maybe Jill would finally get answers to one or both of these questions. So much of spying was waiting. She grabbed the last saltine left from the box she found in the cupboard and she bit into it.

Stale, like all the others.


	37. Chapter 36: The Fate of Eavesdroppers

A/N Onward. Thanks so much for reading, reviewing and PMing.

Happy Holidays to all, if you are celebrating, Happy Days, if you are not.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 36 The Fate of Eavesdroppers

* * *

 _Listening is obsolete._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 3_

* * *

Sarah pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building tingling with excitement. Chuck was clearly atingle too. They could not get inside soon enough, although Sarah was trying to calm herself enough to do what she had planned—and to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, anything _Jill_. She scanned; she saw nothing.

They did not speak going up the elevator, although each could hear the shallow, rapid breathing of the other. Sarah could never remember being quite this excited unless it had been the night after the kiss, the night she climbed through the Morgan Door and into her future.

She was planning not to hurt him. She had a plan. A plan for them. It wasn't worked out, some of it was still a long shot, maybe, but at least she felt she had finally read her fate, seen what was before her, and was walking forward.

Chuck reached out and took her hand. She felt them both tremble as their fingers intertwined. Sarah held him back when they got to her floor. She looked down the hallway. No one in sight. All the doors were closed. She waited for a beat or two to see if there was any change, but nothing stirred. She stepped into the hallway with Chuck a step behind her. She unlocked her apartment door and they stepped inside. Sarah closed the door.

As it clicked, she gave Chuck the most passionate kiss she had it in her to give. They wrapped around each other and pressed against each other with such eagerness that neither could have taken a breath, had one or the other come up for air. Neither did for a long time—pearl divers diving deep. Eventually, as her entire body was overtaken by responsiveness to Chuck, she forced herself to step back and end the kiss. Chuck's eyes remained closed, his lips slightly swollen. He was all responsiveness to her too.

"Chuck," she said in a whisper slightly hoarse with the enormity of her desire, "I love you. I really, really love you. And I really, really want you. But can you wait a few minutes more?"

He opened his eyes and slowly grinned at her, as if they were sharing a joke—and maybe they were, given how often things between them seemed to either be ended, ending, or permanently delayed. He would wait a few minutes more.

"I will be right back."

* * *

Jill had heard Chuck and Walker arrive. She heard them in the hallway. She flipped on her equipment carefully and put on her headphones. She heard the door unlock and open. She heard it click closed. And then she heard the sounds of kissing. She heard Walker tell how much she loved him and wanted him. She heard Walker ask Chuck to wait and Chuck agree. Jill was seething. If Walker was acting, she was damn good; it all sounded real, joyous, breathless and eager. There was nothing coy or 'come hither' in Walker's tone, no suggestion of dalliance. Just deep desire and...love. Jill squeezed her eyes shut as if that would stop what she was hearing. She heard a door close. Walker had presumably stepped into her bathroom. What was Walker doing?

* * *

Sarah kicked off her shoes and took her clothes off quickly. She slipped into a lapis silk chemise with white trim. It fell around her as if it were water. She knew the color of it and of her eyes were a match. She checked her hair. She took her long necklace off and unfastened its clasp, removing the pendant. She returned to Chuck.

He was seated on the bed, but when he saw her, he stood. He gaped. He gasped.

"Sarah!"

That was all he managed to say. Sarah felt herself flush. She took Chuck's hand and opened it, and dropped the pendant into it. He looked at it. "Sarah? How?"

"Ellie found it for me the night I went to see her...after you were taken. You once told me she could sniff out diamonds. I hope you won't be angry; I wanted it close to me. It was my pledge to you, my promise that I would find you. You always find me, Chuck, no matter how hard I try to hide, no matter how far I run, no matter how hard I make it for you. Well, you have found me. _Here I am_. Look outside, Chuck." Sarah gestured with one arm toward the window, the bright blue sky now free of the clouds that had been scattered in it earlier in the day. "No rain. The rain delay is over. My delay is over. Are you _still asking_ , Chuck?"

Chuck kneeled and held out the ring he bought in Reno. "Sarah, will you marry me? I want you to be the last woman in my life, the perfector of my happiness."

Sarah took the ring from his hand and she put it on. Then, using that hand, she took his hand and he stood back up. Her smile was sunrise. "Yes, Chuck, I will marry you. When we can work it out, let's go back to Union Station."

"Oh, Sarah, we don't have to do that. We can get married wherever you want. We don't have to go all the way to Reno."

"Yes, Chuck, I think we do. That's where you first offered me this ring and…"

Sarah stopped.

She remembered a diamond ring turning slowly on a screen. A home shopping show. Jill's neighbor. The woman Jill used as an alarm when she abducted Chuck. The apartment next door.

Sarah turned and grabbed her pistol from her bag. Chuck saw it and gulped. "No, really, Sarah, Reno would be fine…I'd be happy with Reno."

Sarah soundlessly screwed on the silencer she fished out of the bag. "This isn't about Reno, Chuck." She spoke quietly.

"Oh. Well, ah, um, _fore-gunplay_ sounds…ah, okay...?"

Sarah put her finger to his lips, telling him to be quiet. She leaned to him and whispered, nearly silently. "Chuck, call Casey. Tell him to get a team here. Jill is next door. Stay in the damn apartment."

* * *

Jill was in a lather. Chuck had just proposed to Walker.

 _Again_ , evidently. Or _still_ (whatever that meant). For a moment, Jill could hear nothing more except her own internal cry of anguished frustration.

 _This could not be happening_!

The apartment door made a woody, snapping sound and whipped open. Jill kicked herself backward and sideways in her desk chair, grabbing her pistol from the desk as the chair went over. She rolled out of the chair just before it contacted the floor. She rolled across the floor to the far end of the couch. She waited. Nothing happened. She cautiously peeked above the arm of the couch.

Walker was not in the apartment, not so far as Jill could tell. She must still be in the hallway.

"Well, it is fitting I guess, Walker, that this would end in a showdown between us. Sort of like a Western…but not. He's mine, Walker. He's been mine from the beginning. Mine. You cannot have him. I suppose I get it, your falling for him. I did. But you know he can't really fall for you. Chuck fell once—at Stanford—and he's never going to fall again. He. Is. Mine." Jill felt her mouth foaming a little. Her rage was deep and complete.

Walker spoke from the hallway. She had kicked the door in but not followed it.

"Jill, you know Chuck is a person, right? He doesn't _belong_ to anyone. He is not property. No one gets to say 'Mine' about him the way you keep saying it. But in the other sense of that term, Jill, in the sense of real commitment and devotion, he is mine—and I am _his_. We're getting married, Jill! I assume you were the first to hear. Must have been quite an earful. Since you were the first to hear, would you like to be the first to congratulate me? Oh, wait; you are supposed to say 'Best Wishes' to the woman and 'Congratulations' to the man, right? Well, really, Jill, either is fine."

Pause. Silence.

"Look, Jill. I don't have to come in. You are trapped. I'm just going to stand here _with my gun_ and wait for backup. Why not just give yourself up. I had other plans for this afternoon." Walker's tone slid from taunting to annoyed.

Jill reached for her suitcase, open on the couch. There was a flash grenade there. Walker had Jill in check, but not mate. _Mate_ —damn Walker! If Jill could manage the throw, she could incapacitate Walker long enough to kill her—kill her several times—and then she could take Chuck and get out of town.

She got ready to toss the grenade.

* * *

Chuck called Casey. He did not elaborate, he just said: "Jill is in Larkin's apartment. Sarah has gone to get her."

"On the way," Casey growled.

Chuck ended the call. _At least Sarah said 'Yes' before she ran this time_.

Chuck opened the door to Sarah's apartment, to hear Jill claiming him as hers. He stopped while still inside. Despite his fear, Chuck couldn't keep the thought from his mind: I'm like the Old West schoolmarm, being fought over by the guy in the white hat and the guy in the black hat.

* * *

Sarah could have kicked herself. Why had she kicked in the door?

She should have just called Casey and waited. But she knew the answer: the thought of Jill overhearing the proposal made her coldly furious, and she had been so ready for…Chuck…that she immediately rejected the idea of just waiting in the apartment. But she certainly wasn't going to do there what she had planned if Jill was listening in. So, her anger and her pent-up desire caused her to overplay her hand.

Jill was unlikely to accept her fate. Undoubtedly, she had a gun. Had she been able to get to it? Sarah assumed she had. What other resources might she have? Other weapons? Maybe. But what?

Sarah knew when she saw it bounce in the doorway and land a foot or two into the hallway: a flashbang. As it went off, Sarah thought, grudgingly: _Nice toss_!

* * *

Jill got up from behind the couch and ran to the door, her pistol out. Walker would be dead in a few seconds and Chuck would be _hers_ a few seconds after that. Just as Jill got to the open doorway, Chuck filled it.

He hit her so hard she went down immediately, plunged into the dark of unconsciousness.

Chuck stood over Jill, shaking the hand he used to punch. "I don't punch girls, normally, Jill, but that's for thinking _footsie_ is fun when only one is playing. And for making me eat another stack of those God-awful pancakes."

He turned and gently took hold of Sarah, who was stumbling in the hallway, trying to regain her senses.

* * *

Casey arrived a few minutes later. As he got off the elevator, gun in hand, he saw Walker blinking in a daze, leaning against Bartowski's shoulder. He had an arm around her. She was wearing some kind of lady thing. Jill was unconscious but cuffed, lying in the doorway of Larkin's apartment. Bartowski was grinning at Casey like an idiot, holding Walker's silenced pistol in his hand.

"What the hell happened here, Bartowski?"

"We got engaged!"

Casey put his gun away and took Walker's from Bartowski. He reached out to shake Bartwoski's hand.

"Best wishes, Bartowski."

Walker chuckled. Casey gave her a hug.

* * *

Leader had been contacted by one of his moles in the CIA. Jill Roberts had been in contact with the mole, asking about a CIA operative, Ryker. She had contacted Ryker through the mole. She had wanted to know about a mission of Ryker's in Budapest, a mission that involved Agent Walker. Why?

Leader set his vast computing network on the task, cross-referencing, collating, searching.

What was Roberts trying to find out? What was going on that might have caused Ryker and Walker to be in Budapest together? Leader called up all his information on Agent Walker. Maybe there was an angle here, one to be used against Agent Walker and somehow against the Intersect.

No one spoke to Leader as the Intersect had spoken to Leader. That breach of etiquette needed to be addressed. The penalty for impoliteness was death.

Leader smiled. That was the penalty for all transgressions.

The computer beeped. A news story in a paper in Budapest had popped up. A missing heiress. Multiple deaths in the child's mansion home. Ties to organized crime. The deaths were clearly Walker's handiwork. Leader sighed respectfully. If only he had Walker and not Roberts! Walker was a perfect spy. She would never allow personal desires to affect her mission…

Or would she? Where was that little heiress now? Leader knew the scent of a promising trail. The game was afoot.

* * *

Morgan stared at his cell phone. Then he stared at a napkin on the Nerd Herd desk. He wasn't really supposed to use the desk, but no one else was using it at the moment. Jeff had headed to the men's room for his lunch break—and Morgan was not going to think that thought any further. Lester was talking to a guy about buying time in the guy's studio. It was an opening.

Alex McHugh had given him her phone number when they parted at the Orange Orange. She had written it on a napkin and given him a direct look. "I'd be happy to do this—or something like it—again, Morgan."

Morgan had, of course, considered calling her before she got out of the parking lot. But he made himself do what he often did when he was about to succumb to his instincts. He asked: _What Would Chuck Do_? Chuck would wait.

So Morgan waited. He wanted Chuck's advice, but he hadn't seen him and he didn't want to call: Chuck could be doing something of national importance. Morgan was going to have to do this mission solo.

He summoned up his resolve and dialed six of the numbers. Then he put the phone down. His heart was thumping. No comparable woman had ever looked at him before much less given him her number. It crossed his mind that it could all be a cruel joke. But that seemed unlikely. The only people he knew cruel enough to play it were Lester and Jeff, but they weren't smart enough. The only person smart enough to play it was Chuck, but he wasn't at all cruel. It really seemed real.

He picked up the phone and put in the final number. It rang. The voice that said answered was hers—sweet and no-nonsense at the same time. He managed to squeak out a hello.

"Hi, Morgan. I was hoping you would call!"

* * *

Carina eased her black Camaro onto the exit ramp. It had been a while since she had heard from Walker; Carina had been on a mission that required her to go dark, so she had heard from no one for a while. She wondered if much had changed in Burbank in the interim. She was dying to know. The DEA had given Carina a month off. She'd jumped a plane and headed toward Sarah immediately. She was hoping for some days at the beach and some girltime with her friend. And maybe, if she were lucky, she would find a nice guy or two to enliven the evenings.


	38. Chapter 37: Interludial

A/N1 Up late with a bad headache. (I guess my claim that I was recovering was premature.) Distracting myself with prose. A small gift for you, gentle readers. Expect no updates until after Christmas. I'm taking a few days off.

Don't own Chuck. Still glad Chuck gave Sarah that charm bracelet in _vs. Santa Claus_.

* * *

CHAPTER 37 Interludial

* * *

 _Well, then: stop seeking. Let it all happen. Let it come and go._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 37_

* * *

Casey had left, taking Jill to Castle.

After Casey left with her, Chuck ran back up the stairs to Sarah's apartment. She was standing, her robe pulled close around her, looking out the window. Chuck frowned. She had been so happy. They both had been. Jill. What a killjoy.

But when Chuck closed the door, she turned to him, her robe falling open to reveal the chemise again. She smiled at him—her smile again full of joy and desire. She held up her hand with the engagement ring on it, palm toward her so that he could see the ring there. She waved her fingers.

"It is beautiful, Chuck. And so are _you_. Now, as I recall, the last thing you said to me when we were in here was something about _foreplay_?"

"Well, sorta. But then there was…Jill and that stun grenade."

"Get on the bed, fiancé Chuck; I'll show you a stun grenade." He sat immediately on the edge of the bed.

She shrugged her shoulders and let her robe slip down her arms and onto the floor, a puddle of silken blue at her feet. She reached up and ran her fingers through her hair around the back of her neck. She pulled her fingers slowly through her hair, spreading it out, loosening it. As she did, the silk of the chemise hugged her tightly.

Chuck nearly lost consciousness.

"Boom," Sarah whispered as she pushed his shoulders down onto the bed and covered him with her.

* * *

Alex was standing in the front of the Buy More. She and Morgan had made plans to have dinner. She was excited. She liked Morgan. He was sweet. Geeky and not fully adjusted to the so-called adult world, true—but sweet. She'd dated the not-sweet, 'fully adjusted' guys enough to have had enough of them. She wanted someone who wanted a family, not a fantasy. Someone who wanted her and not a flattering reflection of himself in her eyes. She'd grown up without a father. She wanted a man in her life—not a father figure for her, but someone who wanted to be a father. Who wanted to be a husband. Someone who wanted to be a man, not an overgrown boy.

She smiled inwardly. Surely, Morgan seemed exactly like an overgrown boy. But that was part of what intrigued her. He wasn't an overgrown boy pretending to be a man. He was an overgrown boy who—she had a strong suspicion—was hiding an actual man underneath the overgrowth. She was willing to take the chance.

Two men in white shirts approached her. The smaller one, dark, with longish hair, got very close to her and then circled her, looking at her intensely, like she was some sort of mystery. The other, fleshy and sleepy, seemed over and over about to say something to her, but no word ever issued from him.

Luckily, Morgan appeared, a navy Buy More jacket over his green Buy More shirt.

"Hey, Alex. This is Lester and this is Jeff. They are really one corporate entity known as Jeffster. Never, ever eat or drink anything that they give you. And remember, if you stand still, they have a hard time finding you. Their eyes only lock on moving targets."

Morgan shouldered Jeff aside and put his hand softly on Alex's shoulder. He glared at Lester and Lester slowly backed away.

"Wow. They are scary, Morgan." Alex was laughing, however.

"You should see them when they are off their meds."

As they stepped outside, Alex realized the sun had already gone down. It was a cool evening and the top she had on, while one of her most attractive, wasn't warm. But before she had thought to regret her choice, though, Morgan had draped his jacket around her shoulders. She looked at him.

"Oh, I guess I should've asked. You just looked cold."

"I was. Thanks, Morgan. That was sweet." She pulled the jacket around her more tightly.

"Sweet…" Morgan smiled. "Gee, now I feel like I am twelve."

"That's ok, Morgan. I sort of feel that way all-of-a-sudden too." It was all she could do to keep herself from skipping. She took his hand.

* * *

Casey had come upstairs after locking Jill in a holding cell and doing some necessary paperwork. He had also talked briefly with General Beckman; she was due in town tomorrow, so that conversation could be kept short.

When he got up into the Buy More, he noticed a small, striking auburn-haired young woman at the front of the store. She seemed to be looking for someone—but not for Lester and Jeff, although they were circling and staring. Casey started to go and rescue her when he saw Morgan do it.

Morgan seemed like a clown a lot of the time. But Casey ungrudgingly admitted the little man had proven he had stones. He was no coward and, when he made himself pay attention, he was no clown. He was certainly paying attention to the young woman. Something about her tugged at Casey's memory. Had he met her?

He followed them as far as the door and then stopped to watch them through the glass. He saw Morgan put his jacket around her shoulders. She seemed touched by the gesture, and as they walked on, she seemed like she was almost dancing. Good for the little bearded man.

Why did she seem so familiar?

* * *

Casey turned from the door to make his way into the store when he heard his name. He turned to find Carina smiling ear to ear in her typical, half-suggestive, half-joking manner.

"Carina. What brings you to town?"

"Well, that might be you, big guy."

Casey raised his brows. Carina was impossible. Every conversation with her felt a little like Russian roulette. Any remark might be a bullet to the brain. He waited in silence, choosing wisdom over valor.

Carina gave him an appraising glance, tilting her head to the side.

"Cat Squad got your tongue?"

"Don't know nothing about that, Carina."

"I'm looking for Walker. I figured she'd be wherever Chuckles is, you know, keeping him safe or whatever it is she does—and I figured he'd be…here." She looked around, stunned as before by the green boxy Buy More. "So, is she here?"

"No, not here. I suspect she is…busy."

"Work? Mission?"

"Not exactly. Been kind of a big day for Walker."

"You don't say?" Carina was beginning to get interested. She took a step closer to Casey, who unconsciously took a step back to compensate.

"You need to talk to her."

"So, she is still…assigned to Chuckles?"

Casey grinned in spite of his desire not to prolong the conversation. "Yes. Still _assigned_."

It was Carina's turn to raise her brows. "Spill, Casey."

Casey made a crisp, parade-ground turn and headed double-time in the opposite direction.

"Coward!"

* * *

Lester was slowly, slowly creeping toward Carina. He was gazing at her in lost fascination. Sometimes, Lester loved living in LA: where else in the world could you plausibly hope to see a woman like that out…shopping?

Carina saw him creeping. "One more step and I will cut you."

Lester stopped. The willowy redhead towered over him. He dropped his head in defeat. Life was unfair.

* * *

Leader's computers had compiled and collated. There were really only a few realistic possibilities. Walker must have flown from Budapest to the States, stopping at an eastern hub. And from there on to California. She might have taken a military flight but there were none that seemed likely. Wrong times, wrong destinations.

Leader gained access to video cameras in the airport at Budapest and in other airports near enough to be reached by car. He began running facial recognition software.

The thought of _facial_ _recognition_ caused Leader to refocus her eyes, so that she saw, not what was showing on the screen, but her own face reflected in it. The face seemed alien, foreign, and distant. She touched her chin hesitantly with her fingers. The face also seemed familiar, comfortable…older…Older than when? Older than what?

Leader refocused his eyes. It might be hours before the software was finished. It might be days. And even if he could track the flight he would have to work out where Walker had gone once she got to California. Luckily, Leader had nothing but time. His room had no windows. There were only the computers and the monitors and the cot—and the slot in the door for meals.

Walker must have found that she had maternal instincts. Leader recalled a line of Samuel Butler's from _The Way of All Flesh_ : "All parents are fools, but more especially mothers."

Leader began to smile his death's head smile, pleased at the literary reference, but the smile never arrived.

The line made her sad.

* * *

Sarah was asleep. She heard a knock on her door. She was so relaxed, so embodied and disembodied, so loose and drowsy from the lovemaking that had occupied the afternoon and early evening that she could not get her limbs to respond to her recognition that someone was at the door.

"Walker? Are you in there? It's me, Carina. Do you have a man in there? Or is it Chuckles?"

Sarah felt Chuck awaken. She rose up to look at him. He put his bent finger beneath her chin and tilted her face further up toward him. He kissed her so passionately and so gently that she felt it to the soles of her feet while barely feeling it against her lips. "Well?" Chuck said.

"I guess we have to let her in?" Sarah's look was full of hope that she was wrong.

"Sarah Walker. I came all the way here to see you. I know you are in there!"

"No exit," Chuck observed.

Sarah laughed quietly, thinking of earlier in the day and thinking of the play. "Right. 'Hell is other people.'"

Chuck nodded. "Sartre. Of course, Sartre forgot: heaven is other people too." He looked at her with such deep affection. "I am a Gabriel Marcel guy anyway. _The Mystery of Being._ Oh well, I guess you have to let her in."

"Carina! I will be there in a minute." Sarah said loudly.

Carina huffed and puffed on the door in impatient response.

"Put your clothes on, Chuck. This all," Sarah whispered, as she ran her hand lightly down his chest and beneath the sheets, "is only for me, just for me."

Chuck got up and dressed quickly, locating his clothes in various spots around the room. Sarah came out of the bathroom in fresh pajamas. Chuck helped Sarah straighten the bed. Sarah finally answered the door.

* * *

Ellie and Devon were sitting at their table. There was a large calendar in front of them and piles of paper all around it. They both looked exhausted and frazzled. Devon stared hard at the calendar.

"You are sure? You're sure that is the date?"

Ellie nodded.

"Have you double-checked it?"

Ellie nodded again.

"So I guess I have to be the one to say it?" Devon turned his stare on Ellie. She nodded a third time.

"We have a date for the wedding: the weekend after this one. Less than ten days?"

Ellie's responsive smile was tired and terrified and very happy. "We have a date!"

* * *

Beckman was putting the last of her things in her suitcase. Generals, she found, did not travel as light as spies. If Roan were there, he'd be rolling at the excess in her packing. She packed two of almost everything. She also had a huge, thick book in the large bag she was also carrying, Burton's _Anatomy of Melancholy_. That book always calmed her and delighted her, although she could never seem to get anyone else to read it. Roan always shuddered in mock-horror whenever she mentioned it.

Oh well, it meant Roan never got to make friends with words like 'Pumpkinification'. That was a word she had to admit she associated with Roan. She laughed out loud, even though she was alone. She loved that old pumpkin! She could just never seem to tell him so. So many years, so many complications, so many compromises.

Her phone rang. It was Rose. Her excitement was audible, despite her obvious attempt to contain it.

"Aunt Becky? Hi! I wanted to call you with the good news: I'm pregnant!"

Beckman sat down on the bed beside her suitcase and spent the next half hour on the phone being happy for Rose, and happy along with Rose.

* * *

AN2 Since a couple of folks have asked, I have not gone to sleep at the pronoun wheel in the Leader sections. It may generally be true that if you are your own beta, then your beta has a fool for an author-but not in this specific case.


	39. Chapter 38: Television Light

A/N1 Spending a couple of days in New Orleans. Wrote this chapter in my head while walking around the city. Came back to my room and typed it up. The chapter title and some of the chapter's features are a nod to a great song by Marshall Crenshaw.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 38 Television Light

* * *

 _After that we'll meet in some Kingdom they forgot and there the found will play the songs of the sent._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 76_

* * *

Carina entered Sarah's apartment while giving Sarah a knowing look. Sarah smiled back at the look, glad to see Carina as always, but annoyed at yet another interruption of the most significant day of her life—and, as she always was, already a little exhausted by the mere presence of Carina.

Carina was so high maintenance she made high maintenance seem no maintenance at all.

Chuck decided to speak, Sarah saw, then weighed the consequences and said nothing. Carina, however, was happy to speak.

"Well, the air in here is thick with…love. I came by to see if you two might…still be…you know, hungry." Somehow the question seemed to be about dinner—and not.

In response, Chuck looked at the clock by the bed.

"Well, dinner, yes, but since we are now…ah…up and you are here, I thought maybe I would go and see Bryce, see how he is doing. You two probably want to talk."

"Bryce? He's _still_ in the hospital?"

Sarah closed the door finally and answered. "No, he is in it _again_. There's been a…lot going on and we haven't been to see him for a few days."

Carina shot a glance at the clock. "I can wait for dinner. I wouldn't mind seeing Bryce myself. Maybe we could all go, and then we can go somewhere and share…"

Sarah's eyes narrowed. Her tone had a knife's edge. "Carina, there has never been and there will never be any sharing. Buy your own entrée." Sarah couldn't restrain the slight growl that served as punctuation to her remark.

* * *

Carina knew she had been chastised, but only intellectually. She really was incorrigible, chastisement-proof.

Carina knew to stop, though. She knew some of what she wanted to know. Sarah was still in love with Chuck—likely more in love than when Carina had been in town before, likely more in love than when they had last talked on the phone. Her panic at the thought of such a thing happening to her rose at the same rate as her happiness did for her friend.

"Ok. So we go see Bryce?" Carina asked brightly.

Carina watched Sarah looked down at her pajamas and over at the bed. She frowned but nodded. She reluctantly grabbed some clothes to put on.

* * *

When they got to the hospital, Chuck asked if he could have a few minutes with Bryce alone. Sarah and Carina agreed.

They sat down in the institutional grey chairs in the lobby. The TV was on. A game show. As she sat, Sarah put her bag down between herself and Carina. Carina saw the ring on Sarah's hand.

Sarah was not sure she had seen Carina really surprised by anything. But Carina gasped and then simply and totally _froze_. She stared at the ring like it was a shimmering, haunting gateway to another world.

"My God, Walker…what has Chuckles done to you?" Pause. Pause. Pause.

Sarah let the silence draw out for a moment, enjoying Carina's shut down. It had been a stun grenade day. But then Sarah spoke, her tone miffed.

"Carina, I don't object to you teasing him and I know he can hold his own, even with you. But when you and I are alone together he is _Chuck_ —and he is not only a _man_ , Carina; he is the complete man—the total package." Carina opened her mouth. Sarah quickly jammed a finger at Carina: "Don't even think it!" Carina shut her mouth.

"I love him and adore him and am in awe of him, Carina. He is more successful at being a person than anyone I have met, than anyone I imagined. Chuck has not just made my dreams come true, he has made it seem that I barely dared to dream at all."

To Sarah's surprise, Carina for once listened without planning a response. She just blinked slowly after Sarah finished.

Sarah's color had risen along with her temperature, her body itself underscoring each word she said.

Carina reached out carefully and lifted Sarah's hand. "I take it this hasn't been on here long? I stopped by the Buy More first and saw Casey. He made a darkling comment about this being a big day for you—and about your being _assigned_ to Chuck. I take it he meant this." Sarah sighed happily.

"And I interrupted? I am so _sorry_." Carina's countenance fell and then rose. "But I am so _happy for you_ , Sarah. Congratulations! — or is it 'best wishes'."

Sarah answered through sudden tears that put Carina into soft-focus. "You mean that John Casey knows the difference but you don't? 'Best wishes' for the bride to be."

"Best wishes then, darling friend."

Carina hugged Sarah and Sarah hugged her back. They sat in that embrace for a while.

"I thought this might happen—admittedly I wasn't clear about the path from the beginning to the end, to this, but I knew you wanted to connect the dots."

The contestant on the game show was jumping up and down in joy. She had solved the puzzle and won a new car. Sarah watched without really comprehending it; she was thinking about what Carina said.

"What was the beginning?" Sarah asked out of genuine curiosity—what moment or event had Carina taken to be the beginning?

"Well, it involves both men in that room." She shifted her gaze to the door of Bryce's room.

"What I mean is that I knew something was going on when you reacted as you did to _Chuck_ finding out about Bryce. Bryce was never the love of your life. He wanted to be James Bond, and you, Sarah Walker, were never going to fall in love with James Bond. I know you believe you have a type—and you probably do, and he is in that room—but he is not the spy in that room. He is not the guy in that room who wants to be James Bond.

"At some level, despite the fact that you and I have had good times, and despite the fact that you enjoyed the Anderson's for a while, you were too disillusioned with this life to fall for someone under its illusion. And Bryce was under the illusion, all the way under. Because of that, I knew Bryce could never hold you. You believed you were under the illusion too, and I even tried to make it so, because I wanted to keep you around, but you were never really under the illusion. Maybe that was partly because of your time with your dad. You had seen enough to recognize that the spy life is just a confidence game with higher stakes. I have found that an attraction, but you never really did."

Sarah was listening with careful attention.

"But Chuck—I still don't know quite what is up with him but the story you told me when I was in town never washed, he's no analyst—he is in the spy life but not of it. He can live the spy life if he has to, and I'm guessing he can hold his own, but he will never think that it is life, he'll always think it a shadow cast by real life, and of anyone who chooses to live it for real, as under an illusion.

"You see, I think you didn't want Chuck to know about Bryce not just because of jealousy, or because of whatever history those two have.

"I think you did not want him to know because you did not want Chuck to believe you were under that illusion, _conniving_ at that illusion. Deep down, you wanted him to know that although it was your life, it was not all that you imagined life could be. Bryce was never your final destination, he could never have been. Chuck finding out about Bryce made you worry that he would think you wholly belonged to the spy life. If James Bond were your type, well…"

The next contestant on the game show was choosing whether to keep the modest prize money she had already won or to risk it to peek behind Door Number One, Door Number Two, or Door Number Three. She chose to risk it and picked Door Number Three.

"You had finished your comparison between Chuck and Bryce, and you would have decided on Chuck even then, even if Bryce had been alive. (Well, you know what I mean: _not believed to be dead_.)" She looked again at Bryce's door. "But in your typical fashion, you couldn't just tell yourself the truth, _say_ the truth, you had _do_ the truth in the moment of truth. Action, not words, Sarah Walker."

Sarah caught her breath. She had not seen herself from that angle. It was true enough.

Everything had been so confusing. In the illusion and then out of it, she had whiplashed violently, over and over. Wanting Chuck to know there was something more but not wanting Graham or Beckman or Casey to know she knew it. Pretending to believe in what you knew was an illusion (for the benefit of some), while also trying to make clear (for the benefit of one) that you know it to be an illusion despite your behavior suggesting that you believe it—no wonder she had gotten so twisted up. _I said to trust me; I didn't say to believe me_.

The TV contestant made the right choice, winning a prize package—behind Door Three a dream home. Sarah stared at the TV, not quite watching it but not quite blind to it either.

"That kiss that led you to Chuck's the night you called me was a kiss long in preparation, Sarah. That kiss was you making a final decision; it was both your long kiss hello to Chuck and your long kiss goodbye to spying.

"At least, that's what I figured out on the plane. And nothing I have learned since I got here makes me doubt it." Carina finished with a mild, self-satisfied _hmmph_.

"Who knows how long it would have taken me to figure it out if I hadn't gone to Chuck's and if he hadn't turned on his light?" In memory, Sarah was back in her Porsche that night.

Carina looked at the ceiling, her forehead wrinkled as if she were doing a complex mathematical equation in her head. "My guess is that it would have taken you another couple of _years_. And multiple screw-ups. Anyway, I'm assuming it hasn't all been rose petals and soft music since that night?"

Sarah launched into a full debrief. She decided to read Carina all the way in on Chuck then and there: her decision: she'd live with the consequences. She wanted to share it all with her friend.

She started with her second phone call to Carina and ended with Jill's stun grenade and Chuck's haymaker.

Carina was silent for most of it, but when Sarah told her about Tahoe, then about Reno, she took Sarah's hand. As Sarah talked about running from Chuck, Carina looked again at Sarah's engagement ring, seeing it in a new light after hearing about it bathed in red light in Reno.

She continued to hold Sarah's hand until the story of the engagement earlier in the day and the fight with Jill. She asked questions but she mostly just steeped in the story.

"So, wait a minute, Chuck's old girlfriend, this Roberts, she is a Fulcrum spy, and was a Fulcrum spy when she was with Chuck at Stanford?"

"Yes."

"So you didn't take his spy virginity?"

"I guess not," Sarah said, rolling her eyes, "and thanks for a term I will now not be able to get out of my head. And for the weird new reason it gives me to dislike Jill Roberts."

* * *

Chuck came out of Bryce's room. He looked pensive, but when he saw the two of them he smiled. "Ready for dinner?"

"You know what, this is your evening, and I have interrupted it, " Carina said apologetically. She gave Sarah a quick hug. She kissed Chuck's cheek and told him congratulations.

"I think I will just stay and visit Bryce. It's been a long time. We can catch up. You two ok on your own, I assume?"

Chuck reached out and took Sarah's hand. "Yeah, thanks, Carina. Bryce is in and out."

Carina shot Chuck a look, but she swallowed the riposte and only nodded once, sympathetically. She opened Bryce's door and went in.

* * *

Leader knew he needed to mobilize agents and send them to Burbank. Leader knew who the Intersect was. The next step was to capture him again or, if not that, then to kill him. The message should have been sent as soon as Robert's actions confirmed that the Intersect was still alive.

Leader had a message ready to go to several agents, all near enough to LA to be there in a day or two, all deadly. Leader looked at the image of the Intersect on the monitor. Tall, lanky, curly-headed: _that_ was the Intersect? Yes, that was the Intersect.

Leader reached out his hand to hit the button to call the agents. But her other hand grabbed it, stopped it. A voice sounded inside the otherwise empty room that was not his voice. "No. I am not…dead. I am…still here. You will… _not_ do this." It was a woman's voice. She spoke with his mouth. Leader's left hand warred against her right.

* * *

Chuck entered Bryce's room. Bryce was watching a TV mounted on the wall. A Bond film: _Live and Let Die_. It took Bryce a few seconds but he looked away from the screen and toward Chuck when he heard Chuck clear his throat.

"Chuck." Bryce was immediately overcome with emotion—most prominently shame. His face reddened deeply. Chuck looked away from him and up to the TV.

"Ah, that one. Jane Seymour. Solitaire. Tarot cards. She's the virgin Tarot card reader who sleeps with Bond then loses her power, right?"

They both looked at the TV, at Solitaire. Bryce sighed. "Yes."

They watched a few seconds more.

"These new TVs, Chuck; they look just like real life."

Chuck scoffed lightly, and then he looked back to Bryce and realized he was serious.

"Yeah, well, the picture is really good.

"Were you already CIA back in the day, when we used to watch these movies at Stanford, Bryce?"

"Yes, or I would be soon." Chuck pulled up a chair and sat down beside Bryce, angling the chair so that he could still see the TV since Bryce kept drifting back toward it but fighting it too.

Bryce felt Chuck watching him. "Sorry, Chuck, whatever…Jill did to me, it makes it hard for me to keep a conversation going for long. I drift. The TV seems to hold my attention—and it disturbs folks less when I stare at it than when I stare at the wall."

"I'm sorry about what she did to you, Bryce, and what she had done to you. We've both got the blunt end of the Jill Roberts stick." Chuck stopped. "Maybe I should rephrase that…"

"No, Chuck, I get it. She's been in between us for a long time, longer than you knew."

"Sarah told me. I don't get it, Bryce. Why would you introduce me to her if you…?"

"Loved her? I've always had a picture of the life I was supposed to have, Chuck. In high school, I was prom king and a track star. I dated the cheerleading squad. I was a National Merit scholar. I was the valedictorian of my class. But you've heard all that."

Chuck had. He and Bryce had very different high school careers. They'd compared notes at Stanford.

"I wanted to be all that again at Stanford and Jill didn't fit in. I knew if I dated her, I would only date her. So, I didn't date her. I set the two of you up. I didn't do it to out of the goodness of my heart. I did it for what I now know were impeachable reasons. I did it because I thought that nothing serious would come of it, and that she would still be available to me when I had achieved what I felt I needed to achieve at Stanford."

Bryce stopped. Chuck looked at him then back up at the TV. Mr. Big was on the screen.

"Isn't Mr. Big also Kananga?" Chuck asked. Bryce nodded. "Huh. I hadn't remembered until just now."

"Chuck, I know how that sounds. And I know I did it again with Sarah. I sent you the Intersect. I did that because, whatever else is true about how I have treated you, I have always thought you were the best person I know.

"Hell, Chuck, I have always thought at some level you were the better man. I've spent a lot of time telling myself otherwise, but it's true—true that I think it and it is just plain true. But I've lied to myself about it since we met.

"I knew it was likely Graham would send Sarah after the Intersect. I didn't figure on Casey, but I guess I underestimated Beckman. I thought Sarah would keep you safe and you would keep her… _safe_. So that I could come back for her when things got worked out and I got restored to the CIA. Like Jill, again.

"I thought I loved Sarah, Chuck. I didn't, not really, not that way. She was my Bond girl. The woman my life demanded. I had gone from Most Likely to _Everything_ in high school, to Big Man on Campus at Stanford, to James Bond in the spy life."

"Wow. And I thought you were an accountant."

"Chuck, you are the only real friend I have ever had, the only person who put up with all my shit. Even when I was shoving you into the background, you were backpedaling to get there. Even when I made fun of you, you made better fun of yourself. Why did you let me do that to you?"

"You were my _friend_ , Bryce. I don't compete with my friends. I want them to shine. When they shine, it makes me happy. I want to shine too—but not at anyone else's expense." Chuck looked up at the TV. He was beginning to get angry.

"But it doesn't work like that, Chuck! There's not enough shine to go around. Any shining anyone else does is always at your expense. If their shine increases, yours decreases."

"I don't believe that, Bryce."

Chuck watched Bond's first try at wooing Solitaire. Bond turned over the Tarot card she dealt him: 'The Fool'. "You've found yourself," she quipped to Bond. Chuck felt like he'd been dealt that card too.

"I was not _you_ , Bryce. My parents left me. My sister raised me. I was so unsure of myself. You were so sure of yourself. I wanted you to shine and you did. Blindingly.

"And…maybe I was hoping to reflect that shine, to seem like I was shining too because I was your friend. Maybe I was afraid of trying to shine myself.

"Certainly, my life after Stanford shows I have been willing to live hidden, to hide in the safety of the Nerd Herd. So…I wanted you to shine, and I wanted to shine—but I was willing, too willing, to be the moon to your sun, to shine with your light, Bryce. It was easier and safer...and easier.

"When you introduced me to Jill, I thought maybe things were changing for me. That I was beginning to shine. I was with an amazing girl, the most popular guy on campus was my best friend, and I was nearly ready to graduate—to chase the future I had dreamed of and began to think I could have.

"And then you took it all from me—you made a decision for me that was not yours to make.

"You've made a lot of decisions over the years for me Bryce. Kept a lot from me. Manipulated me. Used me. I know it's complicated. I know you had your motives. Everyone has his motives. Hell, Mr. Big or Kananga had his motives…"

"I know, Chuck, and I am ashamed of it—ashamed of it all. I feel like I've fallen into a deep Karma canyon and that most of it is because of how I treated you. Payback is a bitch."

"No, Bryce, payback was Jill Roberts. And, coming full circle, even though I have apologized for the phrase, we both got the blunt end of that stick, although not at exactly the same time.

Chuck grew silent and apprehensive.

"I need to tell you, Bryce, that Sarah and I got engaged today. I love her and she loves me."

Bryce smiled. "That's good, Chuck, that's good. I'm happy for you and happy for her. I want you both…to be happy." Bryce's eyes glitched, lost focus for a second, then it returned. Sadness came with it.

"I still…love Jill, Chuck. Can't help it. Turns out that my loving her allowed me to break…partially free of her programming. I loved her before I got programmed, so I am…sure that my love for her is real. But isn't it strange…that I know she is fake because my love for her is real?"

Chuck did not have a response to that. Fake and real. Appearance and reality. Shadows and light.

He looked back up at the TV and put a hand on Bryce's shoulder. Bond had just embraced and kissed Solitaire and dropped the Tarot deck containing only 'The Lovers' cards.

"The deck is always stacked, Bryce. You can only play the cards you were dealt. Live and let live, buddy. I'm going to help you if I can."

Bryce seemed to have drifted away, back into the movie. Chuck patted his shoulder and left the room.

* * *

Chuck and Sarah stopped and picked up a pizza. When they got back to her apartment, they ate and talked for a while about Bryce and Carina, but then they allowed themselves to forget everyone else.

They made love again, slowly, deliberately, searching for fuller intimacy with one another, finding that confluence between them where deep waters flowed together, two into one.

Later, after Chuck had showered, he was relaxing in one of the chairs, looking out at the lights in the dark. Sarah was in the shower. Chuck realized she was singing.

He had never heard her sing before—not in the shower, not anywhere.

In a soft, syrupy contralto Sarah was singing Madonna's "Like a Virgin". Why had that particular song come to her mind?

She sang the song, not breathlessly and coquettishly, as Madonna sang it, but slowly and thoughtfully, as a woman, singing of innocence lost, and innocence regained and still to be regained, singing of hope in the redeeming power of love.

A slow smile, as vast as an empire, grew across Chuck's face.

Sarah, his fiancée, his girl impossible, was singing in the shower.

 _Can't you hear my heart beat for the very first time?_

* * *

A/N 2 Thus ends the second arc, "Almost All the Way to Reno". Third and final arc starts with Beckman in Burbank. Next time, gentle readers!


	40. Chapter 39: Mind, Machine, Machination

A/N Apologies in advance for a long A/N ahead of a long chapter.

Although I am trying to keep the events of the timeline that predates the first episode of _Chuck_ , I am not too concerned about their _exact_ placement on that timeline. (Of course, neither was the show: timeline details are notoriously squishy.) So if my story here seems to you not to jibe entirely with that timeline, I'm sorry, but this is how my version goes.

I have quietly made Alex McHugh a little older, closer in age to Sarah and Morgan and Chuck—for various reasons, most obvious enough, I guess.

At any rate, my version of the backstory starts getting told in earnest here. There is more to come.

Also, as I trust everyone by now has realized, no one in this story speaks _infallibly_ , not even about himself or herself (sometimes especially about himself or herself: self-knowledge is hard). The characters get certain things wrong about each other and about themselves. They cannot tell the future and they sometimes misunderstand the past. That does not mean that the bulk of what they say is untrustworthy—no one in this story is a fool—it does mean that getting at what is true, say, true of a character, requires overlaying the testimony of that character with the testimony about that character from others and with the actions of the character, and then determining where the real overlap is.

Since I haven't kept this short, let me go ahead and add a heartfelt sentiment. I really am deeply appreciative of the folks who are reading the story and who have taken the time to share their reactions and thoughts and so on with me. I am writing this, as I have said, in hopes of teaching myself how to write fiction but I am also writing it in hopes of entertaining you, gentle reader. Do let me know how I am doing on that score since if I am failing to entertain you, I am clearly not teaching myself how to write fiction.

Don't own Chuck. No money made.

* * *

CHAPTER 39 Mind, Machine, Machination

* * *

 _Write a prayer to a computer? But first of all, you have to find out how It thinks…Don't begin with the wrong number._

 _Thomas Merton, Cable to the Ace 8_

* * *

Chuck flashed.

Not in the Intersect way, although he had turned it back on and would likely leave it on for a while now, judging by the solemn look on General Beckman's face and the pressing burden that seemed to be on her shoulders. No, Chuck flashed in the _flashback_ way.

He remembered pointless college conversations with his physics geek friends and their rhapsodic talk of black holes. He remembered one of them claiming that a tiny piece of a black hole, say one the size of a standard diamond in a ring, would weigh a ton—well, maybe not a literal _ton_ but, you know, a lot.

This flashback was due to General Beckman standing in Castle.

She was tiny but mighty; she seemed to bend the light of the room around her. She was _heavy_ —not in body weight but in the weight of authority. The truth was that as small as she turned out to be in person, she scared Chuck far more there than she did when displayed on the huge monitor in Castle.

"...So you know that Graham is catatonic. His prognosis is bleak. The doctors do not expect him ever to revive. In his final act, he killed his wife in the storeroom of the museum at which she worked. Marge was her name. She was a good woman who deserved a better fate. Since the incident involves national security concerns, we have kept it quiet. Her death has been acknowledged but the real details have been suppressed. I hate this, but I did not see any way around it, and, more importantly, neither did the committee that oversees our operations."

Sarah spoke up. Chuck looked at her, at the ring on her hand. He had told her she would understand if she did not want to wear her engagement ring to the meeting with Beckman, but she had looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

"I hung this on my necklace intending never to be without it again, Chuck. My only intention, my hope, was to move it to this finger. No, the ring stays on. It is part of who I am and who I am going to be. Beckman gave you the Union Station advertisements, remember. I hate to say it, but I think we are coming along according to her plan, if perhaps more slowly than she had hoped."

Chuck noticed that Beckman had noticed the ring almost as soon as Sarah came in. He thought he saw a smile ghost her lips, but he was not sure.

"General, I understand, of course, that Graham's position makes what he did particularly newsworthy, sensational even, and that it would be a huge public mess for the CIA, but how is it a matter of _national security_?"

Chuck shifted in his chair, looking from Sarah to Beckman. He wondered that too. Shifting in his chair, unfortunately, reminded him of all the…activity of yesterday, and of the early morning stop at Alex's martial arts studio. Sarah had insisted they get back to work on his combat skills.

They were both surprised by how far Chuck had come. He was still not Sarah's equal, and probably never would be quite that, but he had become a sparring partner that required her to work and fully to concentrate. That had been tricky—the concentration part—because they both had yesterday on their minds, and each clench threatened to become an embrace. Some of them, frankly, had.

Before they left, Chuck had enjoyed watching Sarah share her news and her ring with Alex. He liked the fact that Sarah had a friend who she had found. Alex seemed to have good news for Sarah too, and she dropped her voice as she shared it, but whatever that news was, other than giving Chuck an enigmatic smile, Sarah had kept it to herself. Girl Code, Chuck guessed.

"It is a matter of national security because Graham had an ancestral form of the Intersect." Chuck riveted his full attention on Beckman.

* * *

"What?" Chuck, Sarah, Casey: all at once.

"I will get to how that happened in a minute. But he had it, and it drove him mad. What I am going to tell you is schematic and speculative. It also does not fall out into neat pieces; the story is twisty and its parts wind together. I will do my best.

"We are only now _beginning_ to assemble a picture of these ancestral forms of the Intersect. For too long, we thought of them as nothing more than simpler forms of Chuck's, but that was a misconception.

"We are now reasonably sure that these ancestral forms typically function so as to create enormous psychological disturbances in their person who had them. That was not the intention of the design but it is what happened. There is typically damage at the physical level—the brain itself is damaged—but the worst damage is psychological.

"While I am not going so far as to declare that these ancestral forms are all some kind of brutish AI, that is one way of trying to understand them. They do strange things to a person's psychology, warping, distorting or disintegrating it. We believe—my Intersect team at the CIA and I—we believe that Graham's Intersect initially did him little harm because it contained little programming; it was not exactly empty, but he got mainly the 'skeleton' of the Intersect.

"You see, we believe that in its early forms, the Intersect worked primarily to implant personalities, or maybe better, sets of personality traits. The obvious problem with that was that the personality traits had to get implanted into a person who already had personality and so panoply of personality traits.

"The effect, if you will pardon the melodramatic way of putting it…but if you had seen Graham and Marge…well, the effect is like _computer-generated demon possession_. The Intersect upload, as an outward, alien presence, begins to war with the inward, natural personality or traits the person has—or else the Intersect latches onto the personality or certain of its traits and traits distorts them or disturbs their relationship to the other natural personality traits.

"In Graham's case, I believe that the initial period after the implantation seemed good. He was clearer, capable of working longer and to more effect, his ambition never seemed to flag. In fact, it and his energy became outsized. I believe this because I found notes of Graham's from that time. Graham's Intersect, since it carried no payload of personality traits, worked on him slowly. It latched onto—or perhaps it was latched onto by, we don't fully understand the direction of agency—Graham's strongest trait: his ambition. He was driven already, and the Intersect intensified his internalized self-demand.

"But it began to work on him in other ways. Graham's other strongest trait was his love for his wife, Marge. These ancestral forms do not do compromise, and so slowly, over the years, as Graham's ambition intensified, it came more and more into conflict with his love for his wife, and with the way his wife tamed, curbed and redirected his ambition.

"Marge was a good woman—she was proud of Graham but she would have been mortified if she had known the things he had done and was doing. Graham knew that, and the Intersect gradually turned, not on Marge herself, but on Graham's love for her, turned it into an enemy. Marge told me that it got so bad that Graham could not bear to look at her. He blinded himself after he strangled her.

No one spoke. No one even looked up.

"The other thing it did was it wiped out or somehow blanked Graham's own memory of having the Intersect. This is perhaps the strangest thing it did to him. The other things have an obvious enough logic. But maybe this is part of that logic. We think that Graham's ego could not take the thought that what he was able to do and accomplish was, so to speak, _wind-aided_. Perhaps knowing that he had the Intersect made him worry he was the intelligence community's Mark McGwire.

Sarah looked up, a question. Chuck said: "Baseball player. Home run hitter, broke records while on steroids."

She turned to him. "Oh."

Beckman glanced at Chuck. "Didn't know that baseball was among your interests, Bartow…Chuck?"

"Not much, really, but McGwire was such a big deal 'he transcended the game'—isn't that the phrase?"

"Maybe. Yes. Anyway, it works here. Graham's ego demanded that he transcend the intelligence game. That _he_ do it, not the Intersect, so he forgot or deceived himself into forgetting that he had it, that he had done what he had done with its help. He evidently 'forgot' that he had kept notes. The notes I found I believe were hidden from him—by him or by _him plus the Intersect_. I don't know how much of that brief period of his life he remembered. I suspect his Intersect prevented him from finding out about it of it as it made it unbearable for him to look at Marge.

"When he encountered the Intersect again later and began to explore the descendant form of it, he became obsessed with it.

"That obsession was in part the predictable result of his ambition latching onto the Intersect as an opportunity. But we think it was also in part the result of the violent psychological disturbance confronting the Intersect created—i _t forced him to remember but he would not remember_. At that point, his Intersect began to affect him more strongly, more nastily. His problems with Marge became unbearable. His life began to come apart from the inside. He hid it well enough for a while, but it eventually became noticeable to me and to others, though we had no idea what was happening.

"Now, how did Graham get the Intersect? He got it from your father, Chuck. He got it from Stephen Bartowski. From Orion."

"What?" Chuck asked. "How?"

"Through your mom?"

"My _mom_? What does she have to do with any of this?"

"Graham was sent here around the time you were little, eight or nine, Chuck. He was the senior agent at the CIA Mission Center."

"So?"

"So your Mom was working out of that center at the time."

"I still don't get it." Sarah's face changed. She reached over to take Chuck's hand, as she already winced in reaction. She could see it coming.

"You mother, Mary Bartowski, was a CIA agent, Chuck."

Silence.

* * *

Finally, Casey: "Wait, let me see if I get this. Bartowski's dad _created_ the Intersect, presumably working with if not for the CIA. His mother was a CIA agent. His ex-best friend and his ex-girlfriend are both spies. His current…ah…girlfriend is a spy. But Bartowski is not a spy? _Talk about grapes from thornbushes_." Beckman shot a puzzled glance at Casey.

"What?" Casey smirked. "I wasn't born under a rock."

"My mom is a spy?" Chuck pressed the question but on no one in particular.

"Yes, Chuck. What do you know about how your parents met?"

"Not much, I guess. They said they met… _at work_. But I just thought that meant at the university. Dad was teaching at UCLA when I was born. But I don't know much about those years. They were both gone before I got old enough to be curious about such things… _My mom was a spy, a CIA spy_?" He looked at Sarah and she looked back at him, concerned. She rubbed his hand with hers.

"Yes, Chuck. She was a CIA agent when she met your father. She was his handler and he was her asset." Sarah's squeezed Chuck's hand, her eyes widening.

"They fell in love. His code name was Orion. Hers was Frost."

Sarah felt Chuck jerk a bit at the name. "The Frost Queen…"

"What was that, Chuck?"

"It was my favorite book as a little kid. Mom would read it to me."

"She was assigned to your father when his work attracted government interest. After they married, her primary mission was to protect him. Graham showed up here and found out about the Intersect. He cultivated a friendship with your father and your mother. One day he got access to your father's computer—I don't know exactly how. He punched some buttons and his story as an Intersect began. Your dad evidently was a little too absent-minded for security measures. In Graham's notes, he said any child could have done mistakenly what he did on purpose."

Sarah squeezed Chuck's hand again.

"Wait," Chuck put both hands in the air like a bank robber had ordered it. His voice sounded choked. "I'm lost. I can't get my head around this. Did my mom leave because she was a spy?"

"I don't know the answer to that, Chuck. That happened after Graham had left. He was not in town long after he downloaded the Intersect."

"So, my dad is…Orion. How do you know that?"

"It was in Graham's notes. I take it you knew, despite not admitting it the other day?"

Chuck sat without reaction for a few seconds and then slowly nodded. He asked: "But Graham has been hunting Orion for years."

"Yes."

"So he 'forgot'."

"Yes, he did, whatever exactly that means. Self-deception is almost impossible to understand without software stirred in. Graham was hunting a man whose identity he already knew so he could find a program he already had. I can say those words; I can't imagine living them. But, then again, Graham didn't' exactly _live_ them. His self-deception left him with half a life."

"I know this is a lot to take in and I am going to end here for now, at least where Graham is concerned. But I have more news of the bad variety. We have gotten nothing useful on Leader from the Fulcrum agents we captured after the warehouse. There's been no real chatter on Fulcrum. It is like they have shut down, like Leader had retired. I am sure that is not true—something is going on. Perhaps Leader is preparing for a major push to get to Chuck. Perhaps it is something else. But I just want to warn all three of you to be especially careful.

"There is an apartment, furnished, open in Chuck's apartment complex. I am hoping that you and Chuck, Sarah, will move in." Chuck and Sarah looked at each other and then nodded. "Good. I will have it ready for you by tomorrow. Tonight you can stay at your place or here in Castle. The order to keep your eyes on him 24/7 stands, Sarah, one way or the other.

Sarah acknowledged the standing order with a small smile.

"Now, I would like a chance to talk to Sarah in private. Casey, Chuck?"

Sarah watched the two men get up and go up the stairs. Chuck led the way. He seemed dazed and disoriented. She wanted so to go to him. Casey shot her a look as Chuck stepped out of sight. He would make sure Chuck was ok until she could get to him.

Beckman sat down. "This is just between us, nothing official, Sarah. But first: Best wishes!"

* * *

Morgan was having a hard time sitting still. His date with Alex had been good—actually _good_. Normally, he felt so much pressure on the few dates he had that he caved in early, falling into inane chatter or into bollixed attempts at physical comedy. Neither tended to be a big hit with the woman.

Alex, however, had taken his hand and made conversation. She had actually asked him questions. She was interested in the answers. They had not talked about the weather or about LA traffic or about where Morgan lived. All topics that ended in bad Groucho or bad Harpo Marx. Instead, she had told him about herself—really, about herself. About her single mom, about her early gifts for martial arts, about her achievements, about inheriting money from her father's parents that allowed her to open her studio. She told him these things for free, with no sense that she was initiating some bartering system. Morgan found that he wanted to tell her things too, and did, frankly and without regret. She listened.

Morgan thought she was extraordinary. He did not understand why she was out with him. But she did nothing to suggest that she was similarly puzzled about that. She seemed to be exactly where she was—unselfconsciously, unironically, unapologetically _with_ him. They had dinner. They went to her studio, where she proceeded to show him around. She took him to the mat and offered to show him how to fall. Morgan thought that would be cool. It was cool until she threw him and he fell. He wasn't sure what to think then. But when she fell on top of him, he was sure what he thought: he was a _big_ fan of falling.

* * *

"May I see the ring, Sarah?" Beckman smiled conspiratorially, like a plan had come to fruition.

Sarah held out her hand. Beckman took it and gazed at the ring. She smiled at Sarah in wonder. "Did you think you would find _this_ in Burbank?"

"No. I definitely didn't. I would have thought it was…impossible. I didn't think I could change. I surely didn't think I could change this fast. I mean—I am a work in progress, but I am in progress. I can't fully envision where I am heading, but I know I am heading somewhere, somewhere I want to go."

"Well, every real change requires that you _cross a step or two of dubious twilight_ …"

"Robert Browning!" Sarah said, grinning. Beckman nodded and grinned back. "You're a fan?" she asked Sarah.

"I had a class on English poetry at Harvard. I fell hard for Browning. I haven't had any time for him since, though. I think I threw my copy away before I went on my first mission."

"So, what happened in Reno…that's been worked out between you two?"

"Yes, it has. It took a while and it took us both…going through some things. I had to be sure he knew—knew me, understood me, had faced what I have been and done."

"And what is that, Sarah?"

Sarah glanced at Beckman, unsure how to take the question. Beckman offered no help.

"…I am a bloody woman, Diane. I have done things that are…hard to live with."

"I am a General. I run the NSA. I know something about that, Sarah. I have had a gun in my hand and I have used it. I have given orders that left soldiers dead on the field."

"Do you know the story of David, Diane, the one from the Bible?"

"I have…read it and…thought about it, Sarah, once or twice or thirty times. I have found it a comfort and a consolation and a warning. Why?"

"David was a man of blood. Because he was, he was not allowed to build the temple. His son—Solomon?—got to do it."

Beckman had nodded at the name. "What are you asking me, Sarah? About the limits of forgiveness, the nature of punishment?"

"Something like that, I guess…I just don't understand why David was punished for doing what, as King of Israel, he was supposed to do. If he hadn't won all those battles, there would have been no place to build a temple, no riches with which to build it."

"So you think that David was being…punished? Do you think he was not forgiven?"

"I don't know. The story feels so close to me that I am unsure how to think it through."

"These are deep waters, Sarah, deeper than I am confident in. But my thought has been that David wasn't being punished—not exactly. David wanted to do something that his past made him ineligible to do. Perhaps that ineligibility is hard for us to understand…God's ways that are higher than our ways, that book says…but let's just accept it, for argument's sake.

"I take it that the story is a forcible reminder that life is not always fair, not even for a man who is called 'a man after God's own heart'. Who a person really is, what that person is destined to do and be, is never fully determined by the past, or by present circumstances, even if the past and the present circumstances determine certain things about who the person is destined to be. Those who are favored, as David was, aren't guaranteed everything; those who are unfavored, as you have been, are not denied everything.

"There's a verse in a poem by an unknown poet stuck that stuck with me, and I have thought about it often.

 _We none of us strictly, arithmetically deserve_  
 _The life we have, good or bad_  
 _Neither grace nor fate means anything_  
 _If no free agents exist to bless or curse_  
 _All grace, all fate, no grace, no fate_

"For what its worth, Sarah, and I think it is worth a lot, always remember that forgiveness is ultimately more about the future than it is the past. The meaning of yesterday is never settled until tomorrow." Sarah was listening, her eyes focused inward, on herself.

"I now know a lot about you, Sarah. I was able to get access to information that Graham kept secret." Sarah's gaze grew panicky.

"I will take care of that information, Sarah, I promise. I know more about you in certain respects than you do." And with that, Beckman proceeded to tell Sarah about the length and depth of Graham's manipulations of her.

Sarah was visibly shaken when Beckman finished telling her about Graham's machinations. In fact, she was shaking. Shock, anger, and the cold confirmation of something she had long suspected combined to make her tremble.

"What does this mean to me? For me?" Sarah demanded, but gently.

"I don't know, Sarah. That is for you to consider. But remember this: you have worked your way past it already, or you are working your way past it. You are a work in progress. You are heading someplace you want to go. This information does not change that. I hated to tell you, but I owed it to you. It was yours by right. We keep so many secrets in this business…

"…David did what he was supposed to do and doing it made him ineligible to do something that he wanted to do. Sometimes life gives us burdens that are unfair. It has done that to you. But you have found a way to bear the burdens, Sarah. And you can, you will continue to bear them—except that now you have someone in your life who will help you bear them. He put that ring on your finger and you know he did not do it lightly. You made sure he did not do it lightly. Even so, he did it. He did it gladly, I'm sure. Hope in him for you. He hopes in you for himself." Both women smiled, Beckman first, then Sarah.

* * *

Carina jerked awake with a gasp the end of which she actually heard. She was sore and uncomfortable and hungry. She had spent the night in a chair beside Bryce's bed. Chuck was right—Bryce was in and out. But he had been more in than out.

They had talked. About Chuck and Sarah, the bizarre unpredictable inevitability of their engagement. They had talked about spying and about their lives as spies. Bryce knew that his days as a field agent were over, but he had hopes of being able to continue to contribute to the CIA.

To do that, though, he needed to get the Fulcrum Intersect programming out of his head. Between what Sarah told her about Chuck, and what Bryce told her about himself, Carina felt like she was in a badly plotted sci-fi novel. She was now half afraid of her cell phone.

She hadn't told Bryce about her last mission, but it had been on her mind, and Sarah's news had made the ache of it worse. Bryce's situation had made her forget her own for a while. But she was going to have to face it soon. She stood up. Bryce was asleep. So were her feet. She limped numbly toward the door. She needed to get to her hotel room and take a nap. She couldn't remember being so tired.

* * *

Leader had pulled the trigger. Twice.

One. He had sent the message calling agents to Burbank to capture or kill the Intersect.

Two. He had also had Ryker killed.

Ever since Roberts had contacted him, Ryker had continued to try to get information from the mole Roberts used. He told the mole that he was going to reinitiate his search for the little missing heiress and offered the mole money for information on Roberts or Leader. Leader did not like loose ends, especially not ones that threatened to pull themselves looser. He had the mole terminate Ryker.

But Leader had actually pulled the trigger three times. When the message was sent calling agents to Burbank, Leader's right hand moved unobserved back to the keyboard and another message was sent. Three. Leader smiled. She had thought of her own literary reference: "Don't let your left hand know what your right hand is doing."

She was _not_ dead.

* * *

Beckman left Castle and headed to her hotel. She wanted to rest and think. She hoped Chuck and Sarah would be able to handle the morning's revelations. She pursed her lips and gave it some thought. She finally decided that they could. Even so, she would stay in town for a while longer. Roan was due to arrive in time for dinner.


	41. Chapter 40: World Enough and Time?

A/N1 Onward. Clouds gather over Burbank.

Don't own Chuck. No money made.

* * *

Chapter 40 World Enough and Time?

* * *

 _We make the best of bad beginnings and hope the end will do better._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 55_

* * *

Leader was struggling. Ever since the conversation with the Intersect, Leader had felt tense.

Under tension.

He kept losing track of his thoughts. It was as if he were thinking aloud and someone hidden in his room kept finishing his sentences for him—except, finishing them against his plan for them. It was like someone kept inserting 'not' into Leader's sentences, negating them when he wanted them not negated. Echoes in Logician's Hell.

But Leader was not thinking aloud. No one else was in the room. The computers were running. The monitors showed the rapid passage of faces through facial recognition software. Leader had identified the flight that Walker took with the baby. He knew where it landed in California. Now he needed only to figure out what transportation she had used to get the baby to her mother. To Emma. Molly. Leader was close, so close.

At the thought of Molly, Leader felt a rush of warmth. Not rage: but rather some soft feeling. He had a sudden, strong olfactory memory, the memory of the smell of a baby. His chest ached slightly. She imagined—or did he remember?—holding a baby to her breast.

Leader shook his head violently.

The Fulcrum agents should be gathered in Burbank. The plan would commence soon. Once he had the Intersect, she could _hold_ him…He could hold him _prisoner_ and make him work for Fulcrum. Leader's head hurt. He had a whole new appreciation for the phrase ' _splitting headache'._ The sooner the Intersect was captured—or killed if that was necessary—the sooner Leader could get his head back together.

* * *

Casey had finished Roberts' transfer paperwork to a supermax prison facility. She deserved it, but it was still a melancholy business. She would be transferred tomorrow. A melancholy business on a melancholy day.

Casey had not liked Graham but he could not wish the inferno of Graham's last weeks on anyone. Horrible. He also felt sorry for Bartowski, although he would not tell Bartowski that. The kid could hardly catch a break. The spy life was like some weird set of concentric circles for Bartowski, and he no more than managed to get out of one when he found himself in another, older, larger circle. Casey was impressed that the kid kept moving forward when it had to seem sometimes like he wasn't moving at all. The kid wanted out—but it was as though the spy life itself had conspired against him, making every exit false.

Walker came up earlier and took Chuck with her. She looked white as a ghost. Bartowski looked seasick. Quite a pair. Casey rethought that: they really were _quite_ a pair. He felt lucky to be on the team. They could make it through this.

He walked upstairs, thinking about parents and kids. He stopped on the Castle stairs, almost exactly where he had given Walker a reassuring glance earlier in the day.

That young woman with Grimes.

Casey did not know her. He knew her _mother_.

She was seemed familiar because she looked like someone who was familiar—Kathleen. She seemed familiar—because she was _family._ Casey's chest tightened. For a moment he thought he was having a heart attack. But then he realized the pain was psychological, not physical. God, it hurt. _He knew her_. He steadied himself for a moment, holding onto the rail. Then he hurled himself up the stairs.

Where was Grimes?

* * *

Carina slept for a long time. She had been even more tired than she thought. She rolled over and looked at the ceiling in her hotel room. It looked exactly like it had when she had fallen asleep, except for the distribution of light and shadow. Midafternoon—her internal clock, always reliable, told her so. She had planned to find Sarah and take her out to celebrate her engagement. But now that she had slept, she found she had no desire to do that. No desire tonight. She was not against it generally. It still sounded like a good idea generally. She looked at her phone. One call from DC. A voicemail had been left. She listened to it. No new news, just confirmation of some recent news.

She got up and padded barefoot into the bathroom. Her hair was askew, pushed up on one side like a small-scale ski jump. She ran her fingers through it. She knew she had looked better.

She felt strange, like someone had switched her skin, wrapped her in a skin both older and larger than her skin. _God, Carina_ , that's _a bizarre thought_. She leaned into the mirror and pulled the slight bags under her eyes.

Yes, she was still a beautiful woman. But the calendar was beginning to win the slow, steady war of attrition. Yes, she was still a young woman—but now mainly in comparison with those who were not young. She was not young non-comparatively, the way she had been in her late teens and early twenties.

She'd always liked that song of Steve Winwood's, "Back in the High Life"—although it had been recorded, mind you, before her time: … _Drink and dance with one hand free_ … That had been her image of herself. Was it an image she could really sustain much longer? She looked closely at her skin. Yes, she was still a beautiful woman, still a young woman—but that 'still' was a _bitch_. She leaned back. Maybe she'd go see Bryce again and hang out with him—and see if a nurse could find her a more comfortable chair.

* * *

Ellie was standing near the courtyard fountain in front of her apartment. The apartment across the way had been rented. There was a truck nearby and a very professional moving team was rapidly deploying bits of furniture and household items. It was like watching ballet—or like a military unit.

A military unit. Suddenly, Ellie had a suspicion. She had no more than had it when Chuck and Sarah were in front of her. She squealed and grabbed her brother. She had not seen him since Jill Roberts had taken him. When she finally released Chuck, he gulped for air. She then turned and was about to squeeze Sarah with equal fervor, when her eyes moved to Sarah's hand. She grabbed it and stared at the ring. Without lifting her head, she lifted her eyes to Sarah's. Sarah nodded. _Yes_.

Ellie's hug distorted all of space-time in the apartment complex and left Sarah with no sure sense of where or when she was after it ended.

"Sister! Sarah, you are going to be my sister! Sarah! Sarah!" Sarah saw no need to interrupt. Ellie's joy was a delight to Sarah's own. Devon came out of the apartment when he saw that the hugging had stopped—at least temporarily. Ellie held up Sarah's hand.

"Sarah, that is awesome. No, that is more than awesome—but I don't know a word for that." He quickly hugged Sarah and Chuck. All four turned to watch as the team of movers finished the task, clickety-clack. Ellie looked at Chuck and raised an eyebrow. He grinned weakly. "Ah, sis, I need to tell you. I am moving out and moving in with Sarah. We heard they got the apartment ready early."

"That is good, baby brother, very, very good. You two can balance out John Casey."

"No, I don't think anyone can do that. No one can be the _saw_ to Casey's _see_. Shall we?"

* * *

Sarah had to blink back happy tears. An apartment: hers and Chuck's. The four of them walked to the door the movers had just locked. Sarah had a key. She unlocked it. With Chuck right behind her, holding her hand, and Ellie and Devon behind him, Sarah entered her new home. Her home. Home.

* * *

Roan sat down beside Beckman on the small couch in the hotel bar. She looked over at him, taking him in.

He was dressed impeccably. He wore his clothes so well, and he always had. He appeared to her against the backdrop of the much younger man she had first fallen in love with. Seeing them both, she had a sense of how much they had lost and how much they had kept.

Neither of them was young anymore. Not in any sense. But they were not old. They were still Roan and Diane. He still moved her, made her heart rate increase. Filled her mind with…thoughts. She knew she did the same to him. What Thoreau called _the vital heat_ might be burning lower in them both, but it was still burning in both of them and it was not going out anytime soon. Certainly, she planned to fan it later.

"So, how are our star-crossed lovers, Diane?"

"Do you mean us or do you mean Chuck and Sarah?"

"Ah, let's start with the latter pair."

"I talked to Casey. He spent some time with Chuck after I told him what I needed to tell him. Sarah took what I told her well enough, though, God knows, it must have been hard to hear. It was hard to tell."

"Graham's story is simply a hard one, Diane. It makes me a little nauseated to think about it for long. He seems to have left a lot of damage in his wake."

"Did I tell you the strangest thing about Graham? I did not share this with Sarah. Perhaps it was merely an odd coincidence."

"What?"

"Graham killed Marge and blinded himself beside a statue of Galatea." Beckman shuddered.

It took Roan a minute. "Oh, Galatea—the female statue that Pygmalion brought to life. _Pygmalion, Eliza Doolittle_. I see what you mean…That is odd, spooky even."

"Yes, it is. It is almost as if his sins against Sarah visited him in his last vision."

Stop. Silence. Neither of them knew where to take that thought. They sipped their drinks and glanced around the room.

"Well, what about the former pair—what about us? Are we star-crossed lovers too, Diane?"

Beckman gazed at him, her eyes soft with fondness and familiarity. "Why aren't we married, Roan? Why didn't we have a family? Why is our life the way it is?"

"We made these choices together, Diane. We decided _this_ is all we could have."

"Was it all we could have had, Roan, or was it all we allowed ourselves to want?"

Roan smiled at her, a regretful smile. "There are too many goods available in a human life and having some of them requires you to give up on or accept less of others. There's not world enough and time, Diane."

"Why is that so, Roan? Do you ever wonder?"

"Yes, but I never get any answers—unless they come in liquid form." He raised his arm to signal the bartender. Another round.

Beckman took his hand and laced her fingers through his. She pulled their joined hands to her lips and gently kissed one of his fingers.

"I'm glad you are here tonight, Roan. I am glad we are together."

* * *

Chuck and Sarah were sitting with Ellie in their new place. Devon had gone to a late shift at the hospital.

The apartment was bare, of course, just furniture and necessities. Chuck ran back to Ellie's to return with his _Tron_ poster. He promptly leaned against the wall in the living room.

Ellie rolled her eyes at Sarah and Sarah giggled. Chuck saw the one and heard the other.

"Not permanent. Just, you know, a touch of home. And the backdrop for something I have to tell you, El."

"Have you heard from dad?"

Ellie shook her head. "No, have you, Chuck?"

"I was going to email him for you and then Jill happened. But I do now know something about one of the things you asked me. I know what 'Frost' means."

"Oh, excellent! What?"

Ellie gaped at Chuck as he told her about Graham and about Frost and about Orion. The last part was not so shocking, really, but the other, particularly the story about their mom, that was shocking. Ellie just sat for a while, turning her head slowly side-to-side, as if there were something in her peripheral vision that would not stay still.

"So, is she still alive?"

"I don't have any idea. Beckman did not seem to know. I guess she would have told us if she knew. Our mom, a spy, Frost."

Ellie grinned a little lopsidedly and sadly at Sarah. "Didn't Chuck tell me that they call you 'The Ice Queen'? The Frost Queen and the Ice Queen."

Chuck was standing behind Sarah, waving his hands, trying to deter Ellie, but her shock and the strangeness of the coincidence blinded her to his wild gestures.

Chuck knew that Sarah knew what he was doing without looking around. He could tell that hearing that name depressed her spirits (he saw her shoulders slump a bit). He knew it reminded her of how duped and controlled by Graham she had been. But then he realized she was too happy, too happy about him, her sister- and brother-in-law to be, too happy about their apartment, for it to ruin her mood. As Chuck stepped back to sit beside her, he saw her smirk at Ellie and shrug. "The spy women in Chuck's life are all cold, I guess: icy exteriors with hearts of gold underneath."

"Did Jill have a nickname? Maybe 'Frigidaire'?" Ellie laughed softly at her own joke. Chuck and Sarah both laughed at her laughing at it.

Chuck broke in. "Look, I get that we need to talk about this, and we will. But one more thing. I think Beckman is on to Team Piranha. That comment about my pretending not to know about Orion was pretty pointed, and she hasn't seemed to be buying my 'I'm nothing but a Nerd Herder' shtick. I wonder: should we just come clean and tell her that I am dead-set still on getting this thing out of my head? She would have to understand that, given Graham and everything, don't you think?"

Sarah and Ellie both agreed that it was probably time to tell Beckman, but the three of them went on talking about everything for a few hours.

* * *

Chuck went back to his old room to grab some clothes for himself and Sarah to sleep in. She wanted to stay in their place. When he got back, just after she pulled an old Stanford shirt of his over her head and before her hair had settled back into place, she asked him how he felt about the fact that he and she were the second asset/handler relationship in the family.

Chuck looked up at the ceiling before he answered as if waiting for a sign. "I don't know, to be honest. Did I tell you that the night of my birthday, the night when Bryce sent me the Intersect, Morgan and I were so bored and out-of-place at the party Ellie threw that we escaped from my bedroom window? We pretended to be spies. We used a rope to climb down to safety."

"Chuck, the Morgan Door is on the ground floor."

"I know, I know. But the point is that I tried to _escape from my life_ that night _by playing spy_. That seems so odd to me now, like at some level I knew that spying was a part of my life or would be. I can't seem to get clear of it, Sarah. I can't escape it. How will we ever find a way out?"

"One mission at a time, Chuck. Let's deal with Leader and Fulcrum, then let's get that thing out of that lovely head of yours. I don't want anything beneath those curls but thoughts of me."

"'One mission at a time'. The spy equivalent of one game at a time, I guess. It's been a baseball and spying sort of day."

"Is that so? Do you think you can get to first base tonight, slugger?"

"First base? Is that all you expect from me?"

"No, Chuck, I'm expecting an inside-the-park home run."

Chuck grabbed her, chuckling, and tossed her gently on the bed. "I think I've been given the sign to swing away!" Sarah's laughter filled the room and the apartment.

* * *

Casey had not been able to find Grimes. He had worked earlier and finished his shift. Casey tried to phone him but got no answer.

Casey sat down at a computer in Castle and put in a name he had tried for years to forget, a name that he now recognized, made his chest hurt: Kathleen McHugh. He had never checked on her like this over the years. He had sometimes had friends, other agents, go to her address and let him know if she was ok. But the thought of looking for her himself, even electronically, filled him with dread and regret. It was worse now. The young woman, Grimes' _date_ , was clearly Kathleen's daughter. Casey would bet his favorite pistol on it. Given her likely age, and given what he knew about Kathleen, that meant she was likely his daughter. His. Daughter.

Kathleen's face came up on the monitor. She had aged as gracefully as Casey had known she would. Casey realized in that moment that his earlier sympathy for Graham was not entirely misplaced. Casey had no Intersect but, God, it hurt to look at Kathleen. _Kathleen._

* * *

A/N2 I realize that the window known at 'The Morgan Door' was not technically present in Chuck's bedroom in the pilot. But I am ignoring that. Like I am ignoring the annoying disappearance of that _North by Northwest_ poster from the wall. That was an inspired choice-a terrific symbolic background for the show. Shoulda kept it.


	42. Chapter 41: Dust from a Distant Sun

A/N Our pace quikens. Clouds gather over Molly and Emma. Cloudburst in Burbank.

Don't own Chuck. No money made.

* * *

CHAPTER 41 Dust From a Distant Sun

* * *

 _Edifying cables can be made musical if played and sung by full-armed societies doomed to an electric war. A heavy imperturbable beat._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 1_

* * *

Sarah's phone was vibrating on the nightstand next to the bed. She grabbed it. Beckman. It was 3 am.

Sarah's stomach knotted. She got up quickly and moved into the hallway, closing the door so as not to disturb Chuck. He was still asleep.

"Sarah?" Beckman's voice sounded groggy, newly awake.

"Yes."

"I am sorry to call at this hour. Perhaps it is not important. But I did not want to take a chance."

Sarah pushed her hair back tight against her head, running her hand over it. "That's ok, Diane."

"Good. Look, as a matter of policy, I've had my analysts keeping up with news and chatter, running it all against a list of names and codenames and terms from your past missions and Casey's. I thought it would be a way of perhaps anticipating a move against the Intersect before it happened."

"That sounds reasonable. So what turned up?"

"A man named Ryker." Sarah's heart froze.

"Ryker? What about him?"

"His body was just found a couple of hours ago. He had been killed, execution-style. Maybe this is not important but…"

* * *

Sarah ended the call. She ghosted back into her room and grabbed her clothes. She was dressed almost immediately. She checked her bag. Her gun was there. She knew she had other supplies hidden in the Porsche, including a small go-bag with money and IDs.

She grabbed her keys and took hold of the jeweled fob from the keychain. She clicked the jewel and it slid to the side, revealing a button. She pushed it. It set off the alarm she had given her mother. Ryker's death might not be connected to Emma and to Molly, but Sarah could not take the chance.

She swung her bag over her shoulder. She looked at Chuck. She could call Casey and have him take over the watch on Chuck. He was just next door. It would be safer to leave him.

She walked silently through the still-unfamiliar apartment. She got to the door and opened it carefully. She stepped out into the darkness.

* * *

Beckman looked at the phone in her hand. Sarah had hung up on her. The Ryker business obviously stirred something up. Roan was snoring quietly on the other side of the bed. Beckman wanted to stay there with him. But this could be a real problem. She reached up and turned on the light.

She put in a call for her car, speaking quietly into the phone. She got up and got dressed in civilian clothes. She wrote Roan a quick note. Then she left the room and went to her car. From the car, she called both Cheryl and Bob. They'd all meet at Castle and see if they could figure out what was going on. Beckman tried Sarah again but got no answer.

* * *

Sarah got to her car and opened the passenger door. She put her bag in the passenger seat and then she hurriedly popped the small trunk. Her equipment was there. She reached into the trunk to rearrange the bags when the light from the streetlight struck the diamond of her engagement ring. She gasped. Stopped.

 _What the hell am I doing? He's going to be my husband, he is_ my partner.

Sarah closed the trunk as quickly as keeping quiet would allow and then sprinted back to the apartment. She stopped to locate the key on her keychain and the door opened. Chuck was standing there, fully dressed, his bag over his shoulder. He looked flushed. When Sarah looked into his eyes she saw the hurt.

"You were going to leave without me." The words hung between a question and a statement and were somehow so much worse because they were both and neither. She had nothing to say. She kissed him quickly as an apology and in atonement.

"C'mon, Chuck, it's Molly and mom. We've got to go!"

He ran with her to the car. He opened the door then stopped. Her bag was in the seat. She saw the hurt return to his eyes. _Damn it, damn me_. Habits. She had been alone, a lone wolf for so long, Graham's wildcard enforcer, she had snapped back into the role immediately on getting the call. She knew she was changing—but she now also knew for sure there was still work for her to do. Chuck would help her. She needed to make this better, make it right.

"Where are we going, Sarah?"

"Boulder City, Nevada," Sarah said the words simultaneously with a man who loomed up out of the shadows. Sarah still hadn't opened her car door but her bag, and so her gun, was in the passenger seat. She wasn't going to get to it. The man came into the streetlight with his hands raised nonetheless. Seeing him in that posture, she remembered Chuck yesterday, and she heard a distant bell in her head.

"Dad?" Chuck asked.

* * *

Morgan was standing at the door of the Buy More about to unlock it. Another day, another quarter-dollar. But there was a sign up in the break room: Big Mike needed an assistant manager. He had clearly expected Chuck to take the job, but Chuck's recent run of illness and absenteeism had made Big Mike think again. It made Morgan think again too. Maybe he could get the job. He knew Chuck really did not want it. Chuck's job was saving the world with Sarah—something like that, anyway. Morgan admired that, but he was happy enough at the thought of letting the world save itself, or letting someone else save it. Atlas had shrugged; Morgan would shirk. Let others do the world saving. He wanted to find a way to keep Alex in his life. That would be enough.

She was supposed to stop by this morning with her mom. Meeting the parent. That sounded odd, non-plural. Morgan was of course nervous. But Alex had told him that her mom was excited for her and eager to meet. It was to be casual, a quick hello, nothing more. Morgan pulled his green shirt down again, smoothing out any wrinkles it might have collected in the ten seconds since he had done it before.

Morgan saw Alex and a woman of similar coloring in the parking lot. He unlocked the door. He could see just how much Alex favored her mother—and that her mother was still a very handsome woman. Morgan stepped back a couple of times; he did not want to appear to be too eager. His second backward step brought him into collision with John Casey, who looked haggard when Morgan turned to apologize. Casey's mildly annoyed gaze settled on Morgan. He missed the two women entering the store. But his gaze whipped to them when one of them, Alex's mom, whispered in shock: "Alex!"

She was not speaking to her daughter. She was speaking to Casey.

* * *

Bryce woke up with Carina still beside him. A nurse had gotten her a more comfortable chair, and she seemed to be sleeping soundly. He looked at her as the morning sun framed her red hair. He had always thought she was beautiful. And so she was. The last couple of days had been better for Bryce. The internal self-division caused by his programming seemed less omnipresent. Carina helped him keep from thinking of Jill, and that helped with the self-division.

He knew Carina had something on her mind. Something had happened to her, disturbed her. Her brazen banter and suggestive talk seemed forced.

He thought for a moment about the difference between her and Sarah. He thought it came down to this: Carina took almost nothing personally—particularly the twists and turns of the spy life. She remained somehow untouched by it, like a detective in old 50's hardboiled detective novels—walking the mean streets but able to slough them off, water off a trench coat. Sarah took the life personally—it touched her too closely, too intimately—and her Ice Queen façade was just a way of trying to render herself less vulnerable to it. When he had been with Sarah, he'd tried to instill his own attitude, decidedly more like Carina's, into her. He'd carried that attitude into the Andersons, into them as a couple. He called her by her last name, encouraged her to call him by his. It was impersonal. Nothing was personal. But Sarah wanted something personal, even if at the time she did not know it. Maybe she didn't really want it with him, but it was what she wanted.

The last couple of days suggested that Carina had at last been touched intimately by the spy life. Something had become personal to her. Jill had been personal to him. Living your entire life impersonally was a way of disowning your life.

The thought came to Bryce as a revelation: embracing the spy life as he had, as Carina had, came at the cost of being a spy in your own life, a spy on yourself, of standing in your own shadow.

* * *

"'Dad?'" Sarah asked, unconsciously echoing Chuck. "Chuck, this is your _dad_? This is Orion?"

The man—Stephen Bartowski—stepped further into the light. Sarah could see the resemblance. He was shorter than Chuck but there was a similarity in the way he stood, in a hint of amusement in his gaze although he clearly realized that the situation was serious. His hair was graying and straight—Chuck's curls must have come from his mother. Stephen's face was etched, a toll of pain and worry and thought carved into his features. But he was still spry; he moved lightly on his feet. She noticed that his ring finger on his left hand was missing.

"Sarah Walker, I am Stephen Bartowski, Chuck's dad."

"Dad?" Chuck again—still in disbelief.

"Yes, Chuck, it's me. Ellie told me about you, Sarah, but I knew about you before that. I know quite a lot about you and about John Casey. I would not have left my son in the hands of agents I did not know anything about."

"How do you know where I…where we are going." She saw Chuck's gaze shift from surprise back to hurt. _Damn_. She was making things worse, not better. "I tell you what—can you explain that while we drive?"

"Yes, I can."

"You'll have to ride in the backseat, such as it is. It will not be comfortable."

Stephen closed his eyes as if drawing on often used inner resources. "I can make do with uncomfortable."

"Then let's go."

Sarah got in the car and watched as Chuck let his dad clamber into the backseat. He folded like a pretzel to do it. Chuck got in and closed the door. He looked at her. She smiled at him but his smile in response was chosen, not spontaneous. She started the car and pulled out of the lot. In a few minutes, punctuated by no talk from anyone, they were on the highway heading northeast.

Sarah looked at Stephen in her rearview mirror. He seemed agitated and peaceful at the same time. He was not looking at her. He was looking at his son.

This was _so_ not the way she had hoped to meet her father-in-law to be. She hadn't exactly pictured meeting him—but if she had, the picture would not have been like this: Chuck upset and hurt, and all three of them sardined in her Porsche hurtling into the darkness.

She took her own advice: one mission at a time. "Chuck, Beckman called. Ryker was found dead, executed. It may have nothing to do with mom and Molly, but I activated the alarm and I got ready to go. I'm sorry I didn't…wake you. I'm _sorry_. I have done these things on my own for so long I just fell back into old habits. But I realized I had, Chuck. I came back to get you. I wasn't going to leave without you."

Chuck breathed in and breathed out. She could tell he wanted to talk about this with her, but not in front of his father. He turned and looked out the window for a moment. Sarah went back to watching the road. She flicked a glance into the rearview mirror. Stephen was watching them both closely, his gaze detached and analytical.

Chuck finally turned back to her. She could see how vulnerable he was, the deeps of his brown eyes. "Don't leave me behind, Sarah. I can't stand it. I have been left behind a lot in my life. I can't live in fear of it from my fiancée."

"What?" Stephen's detachment and analysis were gone. "Chuck, you are marrying your handler?"

"No, Dad, " Chuck replied, his annoyance unhidden. "I am marrying _Sarah_. And you need to back off and change your tone, Dad. You long ago forfeited any right you might have had to be involved in my decisions, Dad." Each 'Dad' was a dagger.

Sarah watched Stephen's face fall. Although she agreed with Chuck, she felt bad for his father. Chuck's tone had been as cold as she had heard it. She could tell that streams of emotion were getting mixed for Chuck. Chuck was hurt by what she had done. He was bewildered and angered by his dad's sudden appearance. The two streams met in the image of _being left behind_ —by the woman he loved, by the father he had missed for so long.

She reached out and found Chuck's hand. For a moment, he resisted her attempt to take it, and then he opened his hand and encircled hers. She spoke to him, ignoring the fact that his father was in the car. "I love you, Chuck, and I _am_ sorry."

His smile this time was spontaneous, weaker perhaps than she would've liked, but spontaneous. Stephen was looked at her hand in his son's hand.

"I've been down this road, son…"

"What? You mean you've been to Boulder City, Nevada? Because I haven't." Chuck words were a response to his father but he directed them to the windshield. Stephen winced at Chuck's studied misunderstanding of what he had said.

Sarah began to get a bit angry with Stephen herself. What was he doing? It would have been hard enough to be introduced to Stephen under normal circumstances, but after she had just screwed up and while Chuck was hurt because of her screw-up—that was a meet-the-parent nightmare. And now he was implying _what_ about her?

"What are you doing here, Dad?"

Sarah was curious too. How did he know where her mom and Molly were?

"I know because your mother alerted me."

"Mom did? Thank God! So mom is alive?"

Sarah saw Stephen's face in the mirror. He had balked at the question. "Yes and no, Chuck. More _yes_ than no, but there's still some _no_ in there."

"Dad, what the hell does that mean?"

* * *

Casey realized that he was standing in front of Kathleen. He also realized that she had recognized him. Grimes was staring at him, as was the young woman, both befuddled. Kathleen's lower lip began to quiver. Her eyes filled.

"You are alive. You have been alive All. This. Time. You are _alive_ …"

Alex grabbed her mother's elbow, steadying her. "Mom, what is going on?"

Kathleen smiled at Casey then—a smile he would have literally given a body part never to see on her face, a smile that recognized lies and betrayals where once there had only been pain, pain—but clean pain. She believed that the man she loved had been killed in action.

Except she now knew Casey had not been killed in action. He was alive and well, as alive and well, anyway, as anyone could be, working in the Buy More. The smile gouged a bloody furrow across Casey's heart.

"Alex, meet Alex—your father."

Before Casey could recover, before Alex could respond, Morgan stepped among them. "I don't know what's going on here, but maybe we should take it to the Home Theater room. I can shut the door there and we can talk." He took Alex's hand and led her in that direction. Casey and Kathleen followed.

* * *

Leader looked around his room. Computers, monitors, tables, a couple of desk chairs. A slot in the door for food. Almost everything in the room was black, white or stainless steel. Leader wondered: was _stainless steel_ a color—maybe it was just metallic grey? Nothing from the outside world was in the room. He had kept it that way forever, since he had come to be.

Anything else from the outside, colors or faces or voices, they made his head hurt. He could stand to see people on the monitors, but he kept the color nearly unsaturated. Colors always brought her to visit, Frost, and Leader hated her more than he hated anything he could think of, more even than florescent colors. Even more than Orion.

But she was sneaky. She had sent a message. She had alerted Orion about Boulder City. Leader put his hands around her neck, his neck, and squeezed. He kept squeezing until his eyes bulged and he began to black out. The same old paradox—he could not kill his enemy without killing himself. But he was back in control. She might not be dead, but she was…comatose...for now. Ever since Leader had seen the Intersect, she had been stronger, harder to control.

* * *

There were no customers in the Buy More yet. There was only Morgan and Jeff and Lester, the morning skeleton crew. Morgan got Alex, her mother, and Casey into the Home Theater room. He closed the door.

As Morgan closed the door, he missed the two men in long jackets who walked into the store. One went immediately to the left, the other to the right. Each pulled an automatic rifle from beneath his jacket. A third man walked in and went to the key mount on the wall. He put a key in it and turned it. The Buy More doors closed. He turned pulled a piece of white paper from one pocket and a tape dispenser from the other. He taped up a sign. _Closed by Order of the County of Los Angeles Health Department. Infection Risk._

The man turned and took a quick look around. He saw no one. The two men who came in before moved to stand to each side of him. He took his hand and made sure that the gun in his shoulder holster was still in place. Three more men in long jackets came in from the rear of the store. Each of the men was carrying a large duffle bag. One had a pistol out, leading two men in white shirts, one skinny and dark, the other pudgy and light. They both had their hands up—so far up that they looked like they were NFL referees signaling a touchdown. "Losers," Vincent Smith thought to himself, "why can't I ever get a hostage who is not a loser?"

* * *

"Dad, one more time, what the hell does that mean? Yes and no?"

Stephen spoke slowly, each word sounding like he was using it to cut himself. "It means your mom is no longer your mom. Or no longer _just_ your mom. She is Fulcrum's Leader. She is _also_ Fulcrum's Leader."

"Holy shit!" Sarah said, not actually intending to say it out loud. But she did.


	43. Chapter 42: Black-and-White World

A/N1 Another _back pages_ chapter (apologies to Dylan). Not much room in the Porsche. Sit bodkin, gentle reader!

Don't own Chuck. Not a penny earned.

* * *

CHAPTER 42 Black-and-White World

* * *

 _Until all titles are taken away_

 _Events are finally obscure forever_

 _You wake and wonder_

 _Whose case history you composed_

 _As your confessions are filed_

 _In the dialect_

 _Of bureaux and electrons._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 5_

* * *

Sarah boggled.

"No. No, Dad. That can't be right. I've seen Leader."

"You've seen Leader face-to-face? In the flesh?" Stephen was grim.

"No, I saw a head on a TV screen," Chuck conceded the point.

"Look, son, this is a long story. If I tell it, it will eventually allow me to answer your handler's question about how I know where her mother and Molly are. But it is not only a long story, it is a bad story. I need you to keep interruptions to a minimum."

"Ok, but before you start," Chuck's tone was ominous, "you will call her Sarah, not my handler, or I will call Mom your handler—is that clear to you, Dad?"

Sarah looked at Stephen in the mirror. He looked at her, a short, hard glance. Sarah felt the closeness of the car, the claustrophobia it was causing her. She was suffocatingly anxious for her mom and Molly, tightly frustrated about her Agent Walker _faux pas_ with Chuck, and now she had Stephen Bartowski zigzagged into the seat behind her, glaring at her.

"Fine. Years ago, when you were a boy, and I had been working on the Intersect for a while, I took on a partner, Hartley Winterbottom. Really, that was his name. Hartley was a smart man, a good man. We had gotten to the point where we felt that we could implant full, complicated personality traits into a person. I was at first afraid to do it. I still thought we did not understand our own work well enough to test it on anyone.

"There was an important difference between us. He was not just a scientist; he was a CIA agent too. I was interested in developing the Intersect as a teaching tool, a way of making difficult things easier to learn. Hartley wanted it as an aid to fieldwork. I knew the CIA and Hartley a different agenda, but the CIA had the money—and more importantly, they had your mom. I was willing to work for them so that I could remain close to her and she could remain close to me. Hartley worked for the CIA for real. A believer." In the rearview, Sarah could see that Stephen said that word with a sneer aimed at the back of her head.

"About the time we reached the point where it seemed theoretically possible to use the Intersect to upload a full set of personality traits, Hartley was given an undercover mission. He was to pose as an international arms dealer, a man named Volkoff. There was no such man. Hartley dreamed up the identity, the character traits, and, in a weak moment, I agreed to try my hand at creating them. I did. Hartley thought that this would make him a perfect undercover operative. The idea was that there would be a kind of psychological split. Hartley would be able to be or to cease to be Volkoff as needed. _To be or not to be_ …Think of it as sort of analogous to the version of the Intersect you have, Chuck. The Volkoff identity was to be there to be flashed on, as it were, used, and then it was to cease to function when no longer needed. Hartley's own personality was supposed to be able to oversee this process—again, sort of like your ability to turn the Intersect on and off. Have you learned to do that, by the way?"

Chuck stared out the window but shook his head slowly.

"Good. In retrospect, the entire plan sounds…stupid. I don't know how we talked ourselves into believing that it would work. How I talked myself into it. But we did. I did. Too many long hours in the lab, too much patting ourselves on the back. Pride, always pride. I am too prone to think I am right and Hartley appealed to that…

"I implanted the Volkoff Intersect. At first, it seemed to work as we had anticipated. Hartley was like an actor fully prepared and fully committed to his role. When he switched Volkoff on, he _was_ Volkoff. His cover was apparently impregnable. And he could, at first, switch it off. But there were signs even before he went undercover that there were problems. Hartley began to have headaches. He became morose and would fall into depressions. He seemed to like being Volkoff more than he liked being Hartley, and being Hartley became a burden to him.

"But the basic problem was that the Volkoff identity was unstable. When Hartley finally did go undercover, the Volkoff identity began to unknit in Hartley's mind, to spread itself around. Instead of a self-contained bit of programming, it spread through his psyche. He became Volkoff and ceased to be Hartley, or mainly Volkoff and just a bit Hartley.

"He quickly became one of the most notorious and deadly men in the world. Resourceful and remorseless. The CIA had created their own worst nightmare—with my help. The CIA is I assume in no hurry for that news to spread.

"Your mom, Mary, was a friend of Hartley's too. Like me, she felt responsible for what had happened. Eventually, the CIA sent her undercover into Russia to see if she could get to Volkoff and bring him out. I fought with her. Yes, I felt responsible, but Hartley had not been pushed by me or by your mother into doing what he did. I still don't really understand why it mattered so much to him. But your mother was sure she could succeed. She ignored my arguments. She left us—all of us, and went after Hartley, after Volkoff.

"By the time she got to him, Hartley or Volkoff, whoever he was, he was a mess. He had in effect become Volkoff, but Volkoff knew that he was fictional, not real. He was a man with no history and no body of his own. But he had come to dominate Hartley. Not enough to simply eliminate Hartley, but enough to make Hartley _The Man in His Own Mask_. He was jailed behind his own face. Volkoff ran the show, but also lived in torment, maddened by his own unreality. He captured Mary. He had come to blame me and to blame Mary for what had happened…"

"Wait, Dad. You said 'he'. Do you mean Hartley or Volkoff?"

"Mostly Volkoff. Hartley had an implementation device with him so that he could rid himself of Volkoff when he finished his assignment. Volkoff took it and used it to implant a personality into Mary. His revenge on us was to take my wife mostly from me. To turn her into Leader. He was careful to model the Leader personality analogously to the Volkoff one, and it did much the same to Mary that the Volkoff once did to Hartley. She became Leader, but not entirely Leader. Mary was still there…"

Stephen shut down for a moment, but then collected himself.

"…She was still there but buried alive in her own body, Leader's body. Volkoff assumed that Leader would see things as he did, and hate Mary and me as Volkoff did.

"And Leader did come to hate us, but that took time. First, Leader hated Volkoff—and Leader hated Volkoff for the same reasons Volkoff hated me. Leader, your mother, killed Volkoff. It took time, but he managed it, she managed it.

"Volkoff created Fulcrum as part of a divide-and-conquer strategy. His primary activities, with Volkoff Industries, were being dogged by US intelligence, particularly the CIA. So he created Fulcrum to attack US intelligence from the inside. He crafted the personality traits he uploaded into your mother to make her the leader of this group. To make her Leader. She ran the group while Volkoff ran Volkoff Industries. But, as I said, Leader came to hate Volkoff for the almost-life he gave to Leader, and Leader eventually killed Volkoff. Leader now runs Fulcrum, as the CIA knows, but also runs Volkoff Industries, which the CIA does not know."

"So Mom has been like this for _years_?" Sarah could see that Chuck was struggling. The last few days had been crazy—but this was the cake topper. She moved her hand from being encircled by his so that hers could encircle his. He smiled at her as he often did during over-the-top bits of movies they watched together, a smile Sarah thought of as his 'Yeah, this is crazy but I love this bit' smile. But now it was his 'Yeah, this is crazy and I hate this bit' smile. Still, he was hanging in there. He was Chuck. A black belt in rolling with the punches.

"Yes, I have compacted the story. This all took place over years. I left you and Ellie, Chuck, to find her, to save her. Volkoff sent me a video of her soon after the Intersect implantation—he wanted to make sure that I suffered. I started hunting for Mary immediately. I wanted to save her, and maybe Hartley too, if possible.

"At first, I had no idea what to do. I knew Volkoff was in Russia, so I started there. I spent months in that cold, bleak place before I got a break. Mary had been able to wrest control from Leader long enough to get a message to me on a back channel we established for…love notes…when we first fell in love, a back channel that allowed us to tell each other how we really felt, even while we worried the CIA would try to force us apart…

"Anyway, she sent me a message. She used that same back channel to contact me the last couple of days. Two times in two days—she's never been able to stay in control for that long…I wonder if seeing you tilted the psychological playing field a bit…

"I found her, but I found Leader—not her. I was imprisoned and…ah…mistreated for a long, long time. Leader mostly stayed away from me, because seeing me, especially in person, seemed to strengthen Mary. I was sure Leader would have me killed or just let me waste away, but I have to believe that Mary kept that from happening…

"In your philosophy classes at Stanford, Chuck, did you ever read Frank Jackson's famous paper, 'What Mary Didn't Know'? I know: the title is cruelly ironic. I read it long ago, Chuck, when I was thinking about how to get knowledge implanted via the Intersect, thinking about how to conceive of that knowledge itself…"

Chuck nodded. "It was on the reading list for a philosophy of mind class I took, but I hate to say it, I never actually got around to reading it. I kind of remember the lectures on it."

Stephen continued. "Well, the argument of the paper is not important to my story, but the set-up of the famous thought experiment in it is. Jackson imagines a woman, a Mary, who is raised in a kind of sensory deprivation. His paper begins like this: 'Mary is confined to a black-and-white room, is educated through black-and-white books and through lectures relayed through black-and-white television.' Jackson imagines this because he wants his reader to ask what kind of new knowledge, if any, Mary comes to have when she first sees red, given that she knows all the scientific facts about red without ever encountering the color.

"That set-up is eerily close to what Leader did to himself, to Mary. Leader's control is not complete. Almost anything that stimulates his senses also awakens and empowers Mary. So Leader lives in a self-imposed prison, a room like the room Jackson imagined. He eats little. Mostly gruel. Never goes outside. Has almost no face-to-face contact with anyone. But he runs Fulcrum with an iron fist."

"How did you escape, Dad? Did Mom free you?"

"Indirectly. Having me imprisoned suited Leader in one way. He knew where I was and I was under control. But knowing that I was imprisoned freed Mary; it gave her more will to fight Leader. So I became a source of torment to him. Finally, he came to my cell with a knife—actually got up and walked to my cell, that's how bad things had gotten inside Leader—and he planned to kill me. Mary fought him. He fought her.

In her mirror, Sarah could see Stephen slipping into an active memory of the scene, narrating it internally, silently.

* * *

 _Leader: You will now die, Bartowski. I cannot stand having you near me._

 _He raised the knife to strike. Holding it in both hands. I was tied to a chair and could not move. Then he locked in that pose. One hand was resisting the other._

 _Mary: No, you will not kill this man, my husband._

 _Leader grabbed my hand and pulled my ring finger up._

 _Leader: Not your husband! No one's husband! Never! Divorce. Divorce. I do not love you!_

 _He sawed off my finger with the knife. I screamed. Mary screamed. Blood ran. As the screams ended, I heard my wedding ring fall to the tile floor and bounce. It rolled into a pool of blood and fell over, sinking into it._

 _Mary grabbed me. She cut my bonds. She cut off the sleeve of her shirt and wrapped my hand._

 _Mary: We only have a few minutes, my love. Run!_

 _I ran. I left my finger and my wedding ring on the floor._

* * *

"Leader won—but by a narrow margin. He couldn't kill me, so he told Mary that she could never have me and he cut off my finger and took my wedding ring off it. He was mumbling incoherently about divorcing me and loving me. The blood was everywhere—and when Leader saw it, saw red, Mary was able to wrest control from him. She helped me staunch the bleeding and she got me out before Leader could stop her."

Stephen stopped talking. No one else started. Chuck had tears on his face and so did Sarah.

"I got away. But by the time I could start searching again, Leader had moved. I am now sure Leader is in the States. I suspect somewhere in California. Leader is obsessed with the new Intersect technology, not only to advance Fulcrum's cause but because Leader thinks that my new designs might allow him to assume complete control, to eliminate Mary altogether.

"Since I do not know all that I would like about what was implanted in Mary when Volkoff made her Leader, I do not know if that is true or not. But we can't take the chance. I am going to destroy all of my work, Chuck. I want to watch it burn. Years ago I eliminated everything available on me, on Orion. Now I want to erase the Intersect itself. It has been a curse on my family. It has cost me years of my life just as surely as it has Mary. And now it is costing you." Stephen glanced from Chuck to look hard again at Sarah. His eyes met hers in the mirror.

Sarah glanced away. She saw Chuck wipe his wet cheeks. His earlier anger and bewilderment were gone, as was his hurt over Sarah's mistake. Now there was just sorrow—for his mom and his dad, for Ellie and for himself. Sarah wiped her cheeks too, and then put her now wet hand back into Chuck's now wet hand. She then stared back at Stephen in the mirror.

"In the last few years, I have gotten occasional back-channel information from Mary. Never her location. Leader's control has been too complete. But often information of Fulcrum plans. I have stopped them often enough, frustrated them. I at least got cold comfort from knowing that Leader was, in a sense, foiling his own plans. I wanted to come to you and Ellie, Chuck, but Leader had never gotten fixated on you two, and I feared if exposed to you, he would find you a torment as he did me, and that you would be in danger. Of course, then you become the Intersect and a target gets painted on your back, a 'Hey, Leader, Kick Me!' sign, in effect. Lately, I have been dividing my time between figuring out how to get the Intersect out of you and keeping Fulcrum at bay."

"If we could find her, Dad, could we fix her?" Chuck sounded almost like a little boy. He was poised between hope and despair.

"I don't know. With Ellie's help, maybe. But I don't know how much of her will be left or whether she could live with what she has done, with what Leader has done."

"Oh, and as you both have no doubt guessed. I know where Sarah's mom and Molly are because Leader figured it out and Mary warned me, by the back channel. We ought to get there ahead of Leader's men. I was coming to warn you."

The sun was coming up ahead of them; they were now speeding into the red dawn.

Stephen was quiet. Then he shifted his attention to Sarah. He needed a change of subject.

"So, Sarah, why Boulder City?"

* * *

A/N2 The paper Stephen talks about is a real paper, and important in recent philosophy of mind. It was published in _The Journal of Philosophy_ Vol. 83, Issue 5, May 1986, pp. 291-295. When I was planning the fixed plot points of this story and had decided on the identity and basic predicament of Leader/Mary, the title of Jackson's paper popped into my mind and, well…

The title of this chapter is not only a nod to Jackson's paper, but also to Elvis Costello's great old tune.


	44. Chapter 43: Children and Others

A/N Here we go. Thanks for reading, reviewing and PMing!

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 43 Children and Others

* * *

 _A timid one_

 _Too literate_

 _To believe words_

 _So he hides_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 80_

* * *

Vincent Smith leaned down to stare intently into the dark eyes of the longhaired Buy More employee.

"What is your name?" Vincent demanded.

"What is your quest?" The groggy, fleshy one spoke, asked the question. He waited unsteadily for an answer from Vincent. Then: "What is your favorite color?"

That third question the longhaired man answered: "Stainless steel!"

Vincent looked at Fulcrum Agent 1 (Vincent always numbered his henchmen in case of emergencies), at FA1. "Is _stainless steel_ a color?"

FA1: "Never had one in my Crayola Box. Grey, yes, stainless steel, no. Wait, does that decide it? I mean maybe it is one of the fifty shades of gray?"

Career henchmen were career henchmen for a reason.

The fleshy one again: "Is it really stainless? Is a fingerprint not a stain, a smudge not a stain? Out, out damned stain!" The fleshy one seemed on a roll. He was waving his hands as he declaimed the lines. Not good.

"Shut up," Vincent said him. "What is _your_ name?" Back to the longhaired one. Vincent leaned in.

"What is _your_ quest?" The fleshy one asked this again.

The longhaired one again: "Stainless steel!"

Vincent longed for a bridge off of which to toss the two. He wondered: _What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen Buy More Employee?_

The fleshy one joined in with the other, they began dancing and bawling out: "Stainless steel, stainless steel, stainless steel!" The fleshy one began to play air… _keytar_?

Why did his hostages always have to be losers?

* * *

Casey stared at his feet. He had no words. Kathleen and Alex stood staring at him. Morgan was still trying to catch up.

"So, wait, John Casey is your dad?" Alex nodded with a touch of uncertainty. Kathleen nodded with certainty. "And you thought he was dead?' Two nods. "But he is not." Two nods again. A grunt of _moron_ from Casey.

"So this is an…unexpected family reunion?"

Casey looked up. He could hear tuneless singing. "Stainless steel, stainless steel, stainless steel…" He turned and walked to the Home Theater Room door. He saw Vincent and the other men. He saw their guns. He turned to the three in the room with him. "More reunion fun later. Right now, I need to keep you three alive." Casey bent down and grabbed a small pistol from an anchor holster. As he stood, he checked it.

"Alex?" Kathleen.

"Dad?" Alex.

"Shit." Morgan.

* * *

Carina was still in the room with Bryce. The nurse had offered her coffee but she refused. She was drinking water from a Styrofoam cup and picking at the uneaten portion of Bryce's breakfast. She looked slightly unwell.

"Carina, when are you going to tell me what is on your mind?" Bryce felt better; he had finally asked.

She looked flatly at him. Then she looked away. She returned her attention to moving her fork around his tray. The fork went back and forth pushing a bit of egg but never threatened to spear it. She was trying to make a decision about telling him.

* * *

Carina had left Bryce's room at dawn. The chair she was in was more comfortable but it still left her stiff and sore after a few hours. She thought about going to the cafeteria to buy breakfast. But her appetite—mostly gone for several days now—still had not really returned.

She had walked the halls for a while. Finally, she returned to Bryce's room. She had tried to call Sarah. She needed to talk to her friend. But Sarah did not answer. She tried to eat a little of the food Bryce had left for her. No luck, no appeal.

Now, Bryce was asking her about what was on her mind. She wasn't sure exactly how to answer the question. What _was_ on her mind? What had happened had happened. She could not undo it. She would have to live with the consequences, one way or the other. But which way?

She looked up at Bryce and gave him a smile but no answer. She had no answer.

* * *

Casey went to the spot on the floor where the trap door was placed. He opened it and looked up at Morgan. The door surprised Morgan, but of course, he knew Castle existed.

"Morgan, there are six bad guys at least in the Buy More. I'm guessing they are Fulcrum, you know, The Jill Roberts Glee Club. Get Alex and Kathleen down into Castle." Casey walked back to the door to check on the Fulcrum agents.

Morgan took Alex's hand. He gave her a reassuring smile and then gave it to Kathleen.

"It's ok. Casey…ah…your dad, is an NSA agent, a good one. He'll keep us safe."

They started down the stairs into Castle. Casey pulled the trap door shut.

* * *

Beckman could see what was happening in the Buy More on the monitors. She sent Bob to go and meet Casey, Morgan and the two women. It looked like more reading-in was going to happen—but Casey had done the right thing. Castle's facial recognition software had identified Vincent Smith. A high-ranking and particularly nasty Fulcrum agent. Beckman knew of him by name.

She had been trying to get in touch with Sarah and Chuck. But neither had answered the phone calls. A few minutes ago, Castle and the Buy More lost all contact with the external world. Smith's men had cut the lines or used some high-tech device to isolate them, evidently. Beckman had not been able to determine yet how it had been done. But this meant that she had Casey, Cheryl, Bob and herself to use to try to escape, if possible. She knew that the most likely explanation for the attack was that Fulcrum—Leader—thought it likely that Chuck would be bunkered in Castle after the Roberts incident. Well, she would allow them to continue to think that. Even if she hadn't been able to contact Sarah and Chuck, they weren't trapped like a rat in a high-tech hole, like she and the others were.

The most annoying immediate problem was the taking of the two Buy More employees. They had, unwittingly, allowed Casey's group to escape, but they were just as likely—or more—to get themselves unwittingly killed. Neither seemed to grasp the danger he was in. At least they were forcing Vincent to delay.

* * *

Emma woke up to the sound of a steady _beep, beep, beep_ in her bedroom. She reached for her alarm clock and hit the button. Then she looked at it. 3:07 am. She realized at the same time that it was not her alarm clock beeping. She could see a red light flashing on the white of her ceiling. She looked over at her dresser. The clear glass figurine of St. Petronilla that Sarah had given her was beeping and a red light inside it was flashing.

The alarm!

Sarah had left very explicit instructions and Emma had memorized them.

If the alarm goes off, take Molly and go to a local motel. Register under the name Janet Smith. Wait for Sarah. Contact no one. Do not answer the phone. Do not leave the room.

Emma had a credit card and an ID with the name Janet Smith on them. Both were taped under the bottom of her nightstand's top drawer. She opened the drawer and felt beneath it, tearing the cards free. She got out of bed and grabbed clothes, putting them on quietly. She did not turn on any light. She did pick up the figurine and push a button inset into its stand. The beeping and flashing stopped.

Emma forced herself to remain calm. She walked into the darkened hallway and into Molly's room. Molly was sleeping, her clear toddler face oblivious to the world. Emma had a special bag packed. She grabbed it from Molly's closet and thrust the cards into its side pocket. She woke the sleeping child.

As almost always, Molly awakened with a smile. She reached for Emma, her chubby arms extended.

"Good morning, sweet girl. Grandma is sorry to wake you up so early, but mommy sent us a message. And mommy wouldn't do that unless it was important."

Emma had decided as soon as Sarah had driven away that she would treat Molly as her granddaughter, not as her daughter. The look in Sarah's eyes when she held Molly, particularly when she held her the last time had convinced Emma that she would be back. She knew her daughter. She had always been a tough little thing, a stubborn little thing. But when she loved something, she loved it with a true fierceness. Emma knew Sarah loved Molly—although Sarah did not seem to know that. Like her father, Sarah was capable of disowning her own feelings. Unlike her father, she could not do it forever. Emma knew that Sarah would come back. Molly had changed her, reset switches deep inside her.

Emma carried Molly out of the house and to the car. She put her safely in her car seat. Emma got into the car and started it. The drive to the motel would take her about 30 minutes. It was on the other side, the west side, of Boulder City.

She made the drive without incident. She pulled into the lane in front of the office and went inside. She checked in as Janet Smith and used her credit card. She stood trying not to seem nervous as the clerk waited for the card to clear. Sarah told her to leave the baby in the car if possible, if it was safe, so that no one at the motel would know the baby was with her. Molly was in the car. No one was around. Emma kept watch. The clerk finally had her sign a receipt and gave her a key. She drove to the backside of the hotel and parked the car.

She gathered up Emma and the bag. Her room was at a distance from where she parked the car—but that too was something Sarah had told her to do. She got to the room and managed to get the door open while holding Molly against her. She went inside.

Molly had fallen asleep, miraculously, during all the movement. Emma put her in the middle of the king size bed and put a pillow on each side of her. Emma dug down into the bottom of the bag and found a sheet of stickers—each of a cartoon daisy, smiling—and took one from the sheet. She stuck it to the outer face of the door near the knob. She rubbed it hard with her thumb, to make sure it was sticking, but also to remove the shine from it. She stepped back and looked. The sticker looked like it had been there a long time. Emma closed the door. It was time to wait.

* * *

Vincent had seen all the air keytar any grown man should ever be forced to witness. He nodded at FA1, and FA1 shot each of the men—with a dart gun. Vincent was adamantly against needless violence against lower life forms. He turned in place until he located a security camera. "I know you are beneath the building. I know you have the Intersect. You have, " Vincent shook his wrist watch free of his sleeve, "20 minutes. At that point, I will detonate this device."

Vincent stepped aside with a ringmaster's flourish, and sweepingly gestured to a large explosive being wheeled into the Buy More by two of the henchmen.

* * *

Sarah slowed the Porsche and took the exit to the Rest Area.

Her nerves rebelled against doing it, but she knew they all needed a break, a breath of fresh air, to stand up, if only for a few minutes. She had not answered Stephen's question, but she knew she was going to have to do so. She owed it to Chuck, not to Stephen. She was sorely tempted to punch Stephen. All he had said and all the looks he had given her demonstrated that he thought she was untrustworthy and that she was playing his son. She felt a deep existential weariness. She knew what Chuck meant when he told her about feeling like he couldn't escape from the spy life. She could not escape suspicion where Chuck was concerned. It was as though the bar for proving that she loved him kept moving. Chuck wasn't moving it. Others were. She longed for them to have a few days, a few weeks just to _be_ , just to be in love with each other. But the spy life kept driving them on, preventing any peace. Her engagement day had been The Longest Day. She wondered how long her wedding day might manage to be.

After going to the restrooms and getting some water, they climbed back into the car. Sarah started it and in a moment they were back on the highway at speed.

* * *

In the rearview, Sarah saw Stephen turn to his son. "She's not a big talker, is she? But then she wouldn't be." Chuck turned in his seat and glared with active malevolence at his dad. "Do you even know her name, her real name?"

 _Damn Bartowskis_. The family genius for direct hits had clearly come from the father. Sarah had intended to have this conversation with Chuck but she had never gotten around to it. She would have. She had already decided that her name was Sarah Walker, the name she bore when he fell in love with her. That name was now precious to her. She would change names again only when she married Chuck. Chuck turned back around in his seat and his shoulders sagged.

"You see, Charles," Stephen drew out the name slightly, "she does not want you to know who she really is because she is not really committed to you. She is committed to the mission, to the damn CIA, to the spy life. She is not and she will never be committed to you. She is incapable of commitment. Have you seen her file? I get it, son, I do. She is lovely. But she is irreparably broken. End this engagement. Put yourself out of her misery."

"My name, Stephen, " Sarah was looking at Chuck, "is Samantha Lisa Newsome. We are going to Boulder City because it is, obviously, where my mom lives. It is where I lived and grew up as a little girl. It is my hometown—or as close to one as I can claim, Chuck."

Stephen made a scoffing sound that he tried, only half-heartedly, to muffle. But Sarah pressed on, looking from the road to Chuck and back again as they rushed down the highway. She needed to tell him this. It was going to mean talking—doing quite a lot of talking. She needed to show him she could do that.

"I told you some of this, indirectly and briefly, back at Tahoe." She saw Chuck smile in memory of their time there.

"My dad got his start in Vegas. He dealt blackjack at one of the big casinos. My mom was an assistant manager of the hotel he worked in. They met and eventually fell in love and got married. Dad had big plans. He had been working on a mentalist's routine and he started auditioning it around town. He got hired. My dad's only real gift—and it is a real gift, even if he has abused it—is reading people. He used that gift to make himself a convincing psychic, at least on stage. But the better he got on stage, the more convinced he became that he could take his gift off-stage. He started running cons on the side. Nothing much at first, nothing big. Mom got pregnant with me and they moved to a house in Boulder City. It's a 30-minute commute to Las Vegas, but a better place to raise a child.

"Eventually, Dad stopped caring about performing on-stage altogether. He did it but as a cover. He was making his real money running cons. He started spending less and less time at home and taking greater and greater risks. Someone at my mom's hotel whispered in her ear one night what her husband was up to. Dad had conned a member of an organized crime family and the family was out for revenge.

"I was just a baby when his cons started. I can just barely remember the fights that started when Mom realized what Dad was doing. Dad bought his way out of the jam with the crime family, but it took all of his money and all the money Mom had saved to do it. They fought and fought. I really have no memory of them happy. I just remember shouting and crying and dishes breaking and mostly long, long silences. Long silences became the vocabulary of my childhood, the only form of communication my parents really taught me. They refused to communicate as their way of communicating.

"Dad walked, finally. Mom kept our home together. But I romanticized my dad's life; it seemed like a life of freedom and adventure. Mom was just grinding away, stuck in one place, making hamburger helper or writing checks. I later understood that she was being an adult and he was being a child—but, at the time," Sarah shrugged with a touch of bitterness and self-censure, "…well, a child's life is appealing to a child."

"Dad loved my boundless admiration of him. It satisfied a need of his. I lived with my grandma, my mom's mom, for a while when Mom was in real financial trouble and feared we would lose the house. Dad would come and take me away on…adventures. He used me for cons. But I didn't know it then. It just seemed exciting, colorful, like playing dress up. When Mom got back on her feet, I was about ten. I wanted to go on the road with Dad. I fought with her about it. She yielded and told me she would let me do whatever I wanted. I think she was so tired and heartbroken she had no fight left.

"I chose Dad, of course. And I spent the next seven years or so running cons, changing cities and names and hairstyles. I functionally forgot who I was. I became fluid, sort of like that Terminator guy in the movie you showed me, Chuck. I moved from one city, name and look to another. I had no stable self, no stable image of myself. All my features were variable. Hair coloring, bleach, contacts, nail polish or not, wigs, glasses, different postures—I learned to think of nothing about me as _me_. I was all changeable features, no real core. Graham recruited me from that into the CIA.

"In one sense, I was a natural, a born cipher. In another sense, I was as far from a natural as possible, because I did not know myself enough to understand what I was choosing, I had no idea about the _I_ doing the choosing. I had no idea what that teenager wanted, like the child who chose her father had no idea what she wanted. And until I found you, Chuck, I still had no clear idea what I wanted. I want you, I want a life with you, and I want us to have Molly if we can work it out."

Sarah fell silent. That was as long a speech as she had ever made. She felt...pleased with herself. She had said something at length, something very personal. And she had said it to Chuck despite being under hostile surveillance by Stephen.

Words had always been there, moving inside her; she had just had such a hard time for so long accessing them. Her inner life had never been inarticulate. She was thinking, constantly thinking (of course, she was). But she had struggled so to manifest her inner life, struggled so that she at times believed, falsely, that she lacked one.

She was finding her way to that inner life now, finding ways to manifest it. She was no spy automaton. _Actions, Not Words_ might still be on her placard, but that was about her preference, not about a presence and a lack. She was beginning to unlearn the vocabulary of silences that had been hers since childhood. Chuck had talked her out of it.

"Anyway, that's Boulder City, how Mom ended up there and how I ended up here." Sarah looked into the mirror, directly and pointedly into Stephen's eyes. "I left Molly with Mom so she would be safe. How did Leader find her? Do you know?"

"Mary's communiqué was brief. No. But what about this Ryker—how might Leader have come by his name?" Stephen was genuinely puzzled.

"Damn!" Chuck hit himself hard on the thigh. "When Jill took me, I had your letter about Molly. I thought she hadn't looked at it; it was sealed and she had no chance to look at it after I woke up from the tranquilizer. But she must have looked at it while I was under. She's a _spy_. Of course, she could open and re-seal a letter!" Chuck hit himself again, harder.

"Stop, Chuck! That's not your fault. I knew the risk of writing those letters. Taking that risk was part of the point of writing them. I didn't tell you to hide them or burn them. It was a way of forcing myself to gain some distance from old habits—and a way of showing you that I trust you, of enacting my trust. I was rending the veil of secrecy hiding my heart from me and from you. The _act_ of giving them to you was significant, not just their content. You did not betray my trust. You were Jill's victim.

"I would not have thought there was enough information in that letter to allow anyone to find Mom and Molly. If there was, then _I made a mistake_ ; I left a trail when I took Molly to Mom. Don't beat yourself up, Chuck. It's ok. I don't blame you."

Chuck could see the truth in her eyes. He smiled at her, his first full smile of the day. "Thanks. For what it's worth, I don't blame you for almost forgetting me, Sarah. I understand how hard it is to break habits. I'm still struggling with my self-disbelief. Anyway, I can't expect you to quit being Agent Walker cold turkey, especially not when your mom and Molly may be in danger. I'm sorry I sulked...I love you, you know that, don't you."

"It is the most important thing I know." Sarah's glance traveled to her mirror. Stephen had been watching and listening. The glare in his eyes retreated.

* * *

Everyone was huddled around the central table in Castle. Casey had the blueprint for the Buy More up on the monitor. He had a plan in place. They had 15 minutes until Vincent detonated the bomb.


	45. Chapter 44: Pineapple Head

A/N Continuing. Thanks for reading and reviewing and PMing—really, _thanks_. It's been a long haul and an…intense…imaginative effort. Your responses have helped keep me on task.

Just in case you forgot: Events in Burbank are running about three hours ahead of events in the Porsche and in Boulder City and its environs. (Three hours in plot time, that is.)

Oh, I confess I have no clear, detailed mental map of the Buy More. It seemed to contract and expand from episode to episode. I hope my map of it here makes some sense to you all. I am not claiming it to be canonical.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 44 Pineapple Head

* * *

 _You will be met at the next detour_

 _By a squad car_

 _Full of heroes_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 32_

* * *

Beckman could tell that there were strong undercurrents of…something…passing among Casey, the woman who had introduced herself as Kathleen, and her daughter, Alex. Grimes seemed involved in it too, but in a different way. She really did not know Grimes—she knew of him and she knew he had been read-in.

Grimes was clearly smitten with Alex. Even though Beckman really did not know him, the fact was unmistakable. Her face seemed to be an electromagnet for Grimes' eyes—he could hardly look away from her. Her eyes seemed almost as clearly pulled toward him. The unreadable _something_ was primarily between Casey and Kathleen. She was quietly furious and deeply hurt—and yet she was as drawn to him, as incapable of looking away for long, as Grimes was with Alex.

And then Beckman remembered Casey's file, details of it she had not thought about in a long time. His real name was _Alex._ Beckman understood. Poor John, to find _her_ —or, given her look, be found _by_ her—after all these years. But, worse, to do it in the middle of a Fulcrum attack on the Buy More!

When this was over, if they were still alive, she was going to have to make that man take some time off and figure out where his life was heading. Casey was prone to forget, in the midst of his deep and genuine respect for duty, that he had duties to himself as well as to God, Country, and Corps. Maybe he was rightly down that list somewhere, but he was on it.

* * *

Casey was currently hoisting Grimes into a duct. Grimes, after some pushing and grappling, made it into the duct. He turned on his hands and knees and looked down on the group. "Yippee-ki-yay, mother…" He looked at Kathleen and choked down the final word. Alex stepped up to her father, her hands out, ready to be hoisted.

"What? You are not going! That is not the plan. Grimes goes. You and Kathleen are here."

"Dad…God, that sounds _weird_ …I have black belts in multiple martial arts. I teach martial arts. I teach self-defense classes… _for men_. Unless you could force me into a corner, and I don't think you are nearly fast enough, I could hold my own with you. We don't have time to argue. Morgan is not going without me."

With that, Alex literally climbed Casey like a tree and pulled herself up into the duct with Morgan. Morgan grinned at her but frowned when he looked down at Casey.

"I'll keep her safe, big guy."

"Somebody keep somebody safe," Casey ordered in resignation. He avoided looking at Kathleen, who watched the entire scene in a still-shocked, abstracted way, her eyes floating up toward the duct and then back down to Casey.

Beckman gave a nod to Cheryl and to Bob. They were going to try to get back into the store through the entrance behind the employee lockers. Casey would go back up through the trap door in the Home Theater Room. Once they were in place, Beckman would start 'negotiating'. The hope was to give Grimes time to get over the bomb. He had a page in his pocket that showed the wiring. The schematics for the bomb were in the CIA computers. He also had a pair of pliers in his pocket.

Casey, Cheryl, and Bob were to work their way onto the sales floor of the Buy More and open fire. Then they were to fall back at an appointed time. The hope would be that the Fulcrum agents would all press their perceived advantage and give chase. Morgan was to take advantage of that moment to drop beside the bomb and defuse it.

It was not a plan likely to make impress Liddell-Hart, perhaps, or von Clausewitz, but they only had a handful of minutes. It really turned on the likelihood that Smith and his men were not indifferent between the options of capturing and of killing the Intersect. If they wanted to do the first, then giving chase might allow them to neutralize or kill the Intersect's protectors and leave Castle open and him undefended.

It would take Morgan—and Alex, now—about seven or eight minutes to get into position. They had to move carefully. Any noise would not only foil the plan, it would get them captured or killed.

* * *

Morgan and Alex crawled to the first junction. They climbed a ladder that took them up and up to the ceiling of the Buy More sales floor. Morgan went up first. He waited at the top for Alex. She got very near the top of the ladder. Morgan was on all fours looking at her.

She let go of the ladder and wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him deeply. She pulled back and looked into his eyes, making sure that he understood what her gaze was saying. Morgan, already blushing from the kiss, turned a burning red. He gazed back in a 'Me, too' way. They smiled at each other and began carefully, quietly working their way out across the top of the sales floor.

* * *

Carina tried to call Sarah again from the hotel. Sarah was still not answering. She left a text.

 _Need to talk_. _Get back to me._

Carina could never remember using the phrase 'Need to talk' except in a professional context. She didn't need to talk, normally. But this was not a normal time. She let herself think the name: _Todd_.

* * *

Leader was impatient for news. Burbank. Boulder City.

He was scratching himself. He felt like something was crawling underneath his skin. Or someone. He had not been the same since he saw the Intersect. It seemed like the eye of his mind was suffering from double vision. Every thought seemed duplicated; it was like he was thinking everything twice. Except that wasn't right. He was thinking it once and…she was thinking it again, not always with assent, often with dissent. He was like a battery but with positive and negative poles that were afloat, shifting, changing position, and nudging each other. He was divided in soul, fickleness embodied. Unstable.

 _She_ was up to something. All the time, now. He could feel her trying to think without using their mind. That would not work. He couldn't do it either. There was something about the Intersect, something more than that he was the Intersect, something she was determined not to let Leader acknowledge. Why couldn't he ever remember the Intersect's name? He knew it but did not know it. Or would not be allowed to know it. Maddening.

What was happening in Burbank? In Boulder City? Turning spies was hard work, time-consuming work, expensive work. Leader did not have unlimited personnel resources. The warehouse disaster had cut into his West Coast numbers. If today went south, it would take time to recover and reassign and redistribute. He itched. Itchy.

Why was she crawling beneath his skin?

* * *

Sarah began to recognize landmarks. They would be at the motel soon. Since she had finished her story, silence had hung in the car, complicated and difficult.

Most of the difficulty was between Chuck and his father. Chuck had become wholly exasperated with his dad's attitude toward Sarah. But she could tell that he did not want to fight with his dad about her in front of her.

She was sorry that Stephen could not at least try to behave himself. Sarah would admit that he had been better since she finished her story. Still, it was clear that he saw Mary when he saw her, and that there were raw and deep wounds there.

She could imagine what Stephen thought of her, given the information someone like him could pull together if he searched—and he had, evidently. The portrait would be…unflattering. She thought about her talk with Beckman—about all that Graham had manipulated her into doing, all that she had done.

And given how Stephen seemed to think things had gone with his Frost Queen, she could understand his reservations about his son's Ice Queen, understand them—but not necessarily forgive them. Stephen needed to _look,_ to see her, Sarah, the woman who loved his son, and not his remade wife or some redacted file.

The motel came into view. Sarah would have to think about all that later. She needed to focus.

She swung the Porsche into the right lane and slowed down. She turned into the motel parking lot but did not head toward the office. She instead went around the building, to the back. By now the sun was up in good earnest, shining with that dry, clear light Sarah associated with the desert-like landscape.

She saw her mom's car in the lot. She slowed the Porsche. She checked each door as she passed it, and located the door with the sticker. But she did not stop. She went on around the motel and back onto the road. She pulled into the parking lot of a gas station up the street. From one corner of that parking lot, the backside of the motel was visible. Sarah parked.

She told Chuck to open the glove box; she had him hand her a small pair of binoculars. She looked for a long while at the motel and the surroundings and at each car. Satisfied, she handed the binoculars to Chuck. He put them back in the glove box. She took her keys from the ignition. She worked the jeweled fob off the ring. She stepped out of the car. "Come on, Bartowski and Son." She laughed lightly as she got out of the car. She walked into the gas station. Once they were inside, she handed Stephen the fob.

"Please take this and walk to room 112. Knock. Mom will answer by asking who it is. Say that Sam sent you and show her that," Sarah gestured at the fob. She will let you in. If she and the baby are ok, send Chuck a text that says so. We will text you back instructions." Stephen nodded, his lips in a thin line. He walked out of the station and began toward the motel, taking the sidewalk. Sarah noted the bend of his shoulders, his gait. He knew what he was doing. He was just a guy, a local, out for a walk to kill time. Chuck's dad was some kind of spy.

She turned to Chuck. They had a moment for themselves. She put her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to his lips, tiptoe. She kissed him. She kissed him again.

"I've been dying to do that. Now, enough, sweetie." She smiled and settled back down on her heels. Chuck was warming to the kisses—and so was she. That was not a good idea. Not now, not here.

They turned back to the window. Stephen was on the edge of the motel parking lot. He walked slowly to the door. He knocked. He spoke and held up his hand. The door opened a crack and Sarah could tell even at the distance it was her mom. She let a breath escape that felt as though she had held it since Beckman's call.

Chuck was watching his phone screen. A text message popped up:

 _All good. Both here, both ok. Now what?_

"Tell him to get their things and to get into Mom's car. Tell your dad to drive. There's a parking garage a few blocks from Mom's house. She knows it. They should park there and wait for us." Chuck's fingers danced deftly on his phone screen.

"Ok, Sarah, done. By the way, I have several missed calls from Beckman. I didn't check the phone in the car."

"I would have told you not to respond. I am sure I have several too. I hung up on her in my panic this morning. She knows nothing about Mom and Molly. Let's get this situation under control then we can call her. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission."

"Are you sure it works that way with Beckman?"

Sarah shrugged, although she was not exactly indifferent to the question. "If nothing else, we will make her hold Molly while she reads us the riot act." Chuck took a minute to enjoy the image.

He saw his dad come out with Sarah's mom. Her mom was carrying Molly. After a brief delay getting Molly in the car seat, Emma got in and Stephen started the car and drove away. Sarah again exhaled slowly.

"Ok, Chuck. Now you and I go check the house. If everything is ok, we will need Mom's car to get Molly's things. Is it ok with you if they come to stay with us at...our place for a while?" Chuck nodded vigorously. "Good." She grabbed his hand and they walked quickly to the Porsche.

* * *

Casey opened the trap door very slowly. Once it was open enough for him to see most of the floor, he scanned it carefully. No one seemed to be in the room. The last look he took at the monitor in Castle had Vincent and his henchmen all near the bomb. The bomb was placed in front of the Nerd Herd desk. Casey thought for a moment about how much he would like to have had Chuck with him.

Chuck seemed to have a gift with bombs. He was like the Bomb Whisperer. Casey was willing to bet he could defuse a bomb with anything—even, say, fruit juice. But Casey did not have Chuck with him. He had Grimes.

He had no idea if Grimes could really defuse a bomb. But he was good with electronics in his own way, and, Casey knew, if Grimes failed it would not be because he was yellow: grape, maybe, but not yellow. He was also the only person other than Alex small enough to have a decent chance of crawling through the ducts without raising a ruckus.

Casey eased the trap door open enough to allow himself to wriggle out of it. He got out and gently closed the door while he remained prone. He checked his pistol. He was ready. He rose and moved in a crouch to the Home Theater Room door. Smith and his men were conferring, not looking his direction, so Casey squeezed through the door and into the nearest aisle. He was in position.

Cheryl and Bob had gotten through the door behind the lockers and into an aisle on the other side of the store. If the Nerd Herd desk were at twelve, Casey was roughly at four, and Cheryl and Bob roughly at eight. The main aisle was at six.

Casey checked his watch. Grimes should be in position in about two minutes. Time to put the plan, such as it was, into action.

"Vincent Smith, this is General Beckman of the NSA. I advise you and your men to stand down and surrender. We do not want to have to kill you."

Casey saw Smith and his henchmen fan out a bit, looking around. Beckman's voice was coming from the Buy More PA system. Vincent sneered at no one in particular. " _General_ Beckman. Well, this is a surprise and an honor." Vincent bowed. "The ancient Virgin Queen of the NSA, shopping at the Buy More. I suppose you must have run out of batteries.

"I have no intention of surrendering, General, although I acknowledge your civility in offering. If I kill you _and_ the Intersect, Leader will be doubly pleased—who knows how lavishly he might reward me?"

"That bomb, Smith, is unlikely to hurt anyone except you."

"Well, _I_ won't be here when it detonates, General. But these two will." Vincent gestured at Lester and Jeff, and finally noticed they were both wearing nametags. There had been no need for the folderol he had gone through about names and quests and colors. "Lester—here, and Jeff—here, they will not survive the blast. Maybe you will, but even _if_ you do, there is a good chance you will be buried under green rubble and never see the light of day again, even if you do live through the detonation. Such an inglorious end."

"Smith, I advise you to stop this. You will regret pushing this situation any further. You are no match for me."

Vincent bared his teeth. Casey smirked to himself. The old girl was good. Play up the old woman threatening the younger man, stir up Smith's vanity. A solid ploy.

"Listen, _Bette Davis_ , you are going to send the Intersect up in…" Smith pulled back his sleeve to look at his watch, "…five minutes. Let's remember we are all professionals."

Casey glanced up at the vent above and near the bomb. He saw Morgan's hand snake out and make a quick motion. He was in position.

Casey could not remember being so frightened in a situation like this. But he'd never had Alex and Kathleen with him. His brave and beautiful _daughter_ , and the woman he was still desperately in love with after all these years. Seeing her in person had made him feel exactly as he had the day he proposed to her, a day he had relived countless times on lonely missions. He forced his hands to stop shaking. He would not fail Alex and Kathleen—he would not fail any of them.

Casey pointed his pistol and exhaled slowly. He squeezed the trigger, his and hand relaxed. The first of the henchmen fell.

All hell broke loose.

One of Cheryl or Bob made another first shot count— a second henchman went down. That was two.

Bullets were flying. Bits and pieces of electronics were shattered and knocked into the air. Plastic shrapnel. Somehow, the Video Wall's TVs came on at high volume. _Saving Private Ryan_ was playing, the beach landing. The sound of that battle became the backdrop to the current battle in the Buy More. The Buy More sounded like a full-on war zone.

Casey stopped firing. The Video Wall was helping. Vincent and his men were confused, disoriented. Casey waited a few seconds, and then he sprinted into the center aisle and dove through the swinging doors that led to the rear of the store, to the storage room and the Chuck Pen—and beyond that, to the loading dock. He heard Vincent shout. He heard bullets smack the doors behind him, but he got through unharmed. He plunged deeper into the storage room and hid behind a box for a wall-sized flat screen. If Cheryl and Bob were ok, they should be coming through at any moment.

Casey heard a fresh eruption of actual shots over the soundtrack of movie shots. The doors crashed open and Cheryl and Bob came through at a sprint. But before the doors swung back, a shot rang out and Bob went down hard. At first, Casey thought he was dead. Cheryl stopped and went back for him, bullets still flying. The doors had closed, temporarily keeping her out of sight. She grabbed Bob's collar and started dragging him. Casey ran to her and grabbed one of Bob's arms. Cheryl shifted to the other.

They got Bob behind the box Casey had used for cover just before the doors were riddled with concentrated fire from the henchmen's rifles. Cheryl had located Bob's wound—it was in his thigh. He was bleeding from it heavily. In his fall, he must have smacked his head, because a livid spot was already showing on forehead and Bob was unconscious. Cheryl took her belt off and wrapped it around Bob's leg. He was big enough and she was thin enough for the belt to function perfectly as a tourniquet.

Casey kept a careful watch on the doors, now almost like screen doors due to the number of bullet holes in them. He was willing to bet that the last fusillade was a prelude to a rush. _Please let them_ all _come_. The doors burst open.

* * *

In the duct, Morgan had released the hook that held the vent in place. He was holding it closed. It was hinged on the other end, so all he needed to do was to let it swing down and drop to the floor. It was an intimidating distance, but he was ready to do it. He looked at Alex, on all fours on the other side of the vent. He gave her a weak smile and started to release the vent. She shook her head hard and pointed. Vincent had sent his two henchmen after Casey, Cheryl, and Bob, but he had not gone with them. He was still standing next to the bomb. Morgan could see the timer.

Two and a half minutes. He couldn't wait. He shrugged at Alex and let the vent go, then swung his legs after it and dropped to the floor. He landed in Morgan fashion, awkwardly. One of his ankles rolled up under him. He gasped in pain and surprise. Vincent wheeled around, gun in hand.

Vincent would have killed Morgan then, there, instantly, professionally except for an enraged auburn dervish that plummeted from the sky and onto his back, whirling away.

Alex had not only timed her drop perfectly, she aimed it perfectly. She landed on Vincent 's back as if they were a piggyback team at a company picnic. She tightened her legs around him and slammed her fists into his ears.

Vincent stumbled under the shock and fury of the attack. He fell to his knees, hard, exhaling in pain, and he dropped his gun. Morgan, frozen for a second by Alex's attack, scrambled painfully toward the bomb.

Vincent reached back and got his hand deep into Alex's hair. He pulled it violently as he fell backward on top of her, her back on the floor and his back against her. But Alex's grip with her legs had not broken. She slammed her fists into Vincent's face. He twisted her head using his handful of her hair. She would not relent. She slammed her fists into his ears, and again into his face—her fists a blur. The collecting blows were working; Vincent was damaged and the damage was worsening.

With feline suddenness, Alex freed her grip on Vincent and twisted herself from underneath him. She crawled away from him on her knees and hands. When she was free of him, she kicked him in the face. She could not put all her power into the kick by any means, but it added to Vincent's pain and disorientation. She was able to jump up. Then she kicked Vincent in the head for all she was worth. His head snapped and he went limp. He was out. She may have killed him. She looked to Morgan.

Morgan had his pliers and his piece of paper out, and he was looking from the paper to the knot of wires on the bomb. The timer had gone under a minute. Morgan heard shots from the storage room but forced himself not to look. Alex started rummaging hurriedly through Vincent's pockets, looking for some kind of switch for the bomb. There was nothing.

Morgan found the wire he was supposed to cut. At least, it seemed like it was the wire. So much was happening and there were so many wires! His field of vision filled with wires, like stringy, colored worms, twisting and turning around each other…

"Morgan! Cut the wire!" Alex.

Morgan cut the wire, more than half-expecting to awake in Valhalla (or some suitably exotic afterlife).

But, no. Nothing happened.

Except the timer stopped: _thirteen seconds_.

Alex grabbed him and kissed him. As he hugged her after the kiss he looked at Vincent, supine and unmoving.

Chuck was not the only one dating a Valkyrie. Who needed to go to Valhalla?

* * *

Cheryl was still tending to Bob when the two henchmen burst through the doors. Casey knew he had two shots left. Then he'd have to reload. He fired once. One down. He fired again. Missed. _Damn_.

The TV and box would not be much of a shield against that rifle. A shot rang out and the second henchman went down. Beckman walked slowly into the room, her pistol smoking. She kicked the rifles clear of the two wounded men. She looked at Casey and Cheryl. Her gaze was questioning— _Bob_? Cheryl gave her a quick thumbs-up.

"Good job, team!"

* * *

Out on the sales floor, Jeff lurched to life, his long exposure to drugs shortening the effect of the tranquilizer. He looked around him—he saw the bomb, Vincent, Vincent's gun, the general destruction. He screamed: "Pineapple!"

He ran for the front of the Buy More and headlong into the closed doors. There was a sound, something heavy striking a glass gong. Jeff slid down the glass doors slowly, sap down the side of a see-through Maple tree.


	46. Chapter 45: Anti-Climax?

A/N Onward. Boulder City and beyond. A _bit_ more backstory in this chapter, but that is almost finished, at least for our central pair. We are nearly ready for the stretch run. A long chapter, but I wanted all these things together, so...

Happy New Year, gentle readers!

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 45 Anti-Climax?

* * *

 _Follow the ways of no man, not even your own. The way that is most yours is no way._

 _Thomas Merton, Cable to the Ace 38_

* * *

Carina felt caged in her room. She had to get out.

Normally, when this feeling came over her—an unfocused anxiety, anxiousness about nothing in particular—her remedy was alcohol, loud music, dancing, and the press of the crowd, flirtation perhaps progressing to a one-night stand...

Carina was not shaking her finger at her former self: she had been who she had been. No, the difficulty was not facing self-condemnation, but facing the clearly diminishing returns of her previous life.

She had begun to see that although her life—in one sense of the phrase—included those things, these remedies, her life—in another sense of the phrase—did not include those things. They had become ways of distracting herself _from_ her life—and so did not properly count as included in her life in that other, second sense. But neither sense of the phrase meant much of a life.

Her distractions were no longer distracting. She knew them for what they were and knowing that ruined them as distractions.

 _Fake it 'til you make it_ —that was not empty advice; _Fake it_ and know you _are 'til you make it_ —that came pretty close to empty advice.

You could sometimes get to sleep by pretending to be asleep, but for that to work, eventually you had to lose the awareness that you were pretending to be asleep. As long as you kept that awareness, you condemned yourself to wakefulness.

Carina paced in her cage for a while longer then she grabbed her phone and her bag and left, huffing at herself.

She went to her rental car, opened the door and plopped into the driver seat. _There_. She was not in the hotel. Now she was caged in her rental car. She had not improved her circumstances by changing them: the story of too much of her life.

She'd left Bryce's hospital room not long after he had asked her what she was thinking about. She had evaded the question, even with herself. But now she had nowhere to hide. She was thinking about her last mission. About Todd-and things. She was thinking about all that had gone wrong. None of it was her fault, strictly speaking. Not exactly. Not really. Shit happened.

No.

That was an inept phrase.

What happened was not something she could lump under a clichéd curse. It was too real, too close to her.

She'd left for the mission a day after the second call from Sarah. It was supposed to be routine DEA work. She wasn't even sure she would have any active part in the operation. She was just supposed to handle the asset. Ironic. She'd been making fun of Sarah about that.

She looked at her phone. No response from Sarah. Where was that blonde? And if Chuckles had her so distracted she couldn't answer the phone—well, good for her but Carina would find a way to make Chuckles…Chuck ( _ok, Sarah, ok_ )…pay.

* * *

Ellie had a late shift at the hospital, so she had slept in. She got up and made herself and Devon breakfast while she made them coffee. They had taken advantage of the apartment's Chucklessness, and Ellie was still laughing to herself about how loud she had been after they had both awakened and before they had gotten out of bed. Devon really _was_ Captain Awesome.

She had put on her robe and gone over to ask Chuck and Sarah if they wanted to have coffee. She was hoping to talk to them about the wedding.

The plans were simple. Chuck would be Best Man. Sarah would be Maid of Honor. That would be all the wedding party. Chuck would wear his suit; Sarah could wear a nice dress.

There were not many guests invited. Their close friends from work, a few of Devon's college friends and a few of Ellie's. Casey. Morgan and the _plus one_ he kept insisting on. (Morgan with a _plus one_? It was either _The Dawning of Age of Aquarius_ or _It's the End of the World as We Know It_.)

But neither Chuck nor Sarah was home at the newly occupied apartment. She tried both their phones, no answer. Spy stuff, probably. Her stomach tightened a little. She hoped they were ok.

* * *

Sarah wedged the Porsche into a spot on the street, well up the street from her Mom's house—or, Chuck realized, given what she had told him and his dad, a block from _her_ house: Sarah Walker's childhood home. Chuck understood that such a place could exist, but he never expected to see it. It was a little like getting to see Shangri La.

Chuck was still seething about his father behavior. First, he shows up after years, but not to see Chuck and Ellie, but on a mission that involves Chuck and the damn Intersect. And then he sits in judgment on Sarah without even trying to get to know her. He plays no role in Chuck's decisions for years, then he questions the most important one Chuck had ever made without even attempting to understand it.

Chuck was still reeling from the news about his mother. The whole story sounded like Harlan Ellison had written it— _I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream._ Chuck tried not to dwell on it. He'd have to try to think and feel his way through it later. It was clear that his father was tied in knots about Chuck's mom. Worry, old, long-lasting worry, unresolved anger, torturous guilt—the whole heady brew was there. Chuck just had to keep moving forward. He had to believe something could be done. His dad had unleashed the Intersect, maybe he could find a way to leash it, even destroy it, and save his mom, too. Besides, Sarah Walker was Chuck's fiancée—and with Sarah Walker, nothing was impossible.

Waking up in the middle of the night and finding Sarah gone had panicked Chuck. He'd gotten past the reaction in the car, and there was plenty said there to command and redirect his attention, but he now knew that although they had both come a long way since Sarah climbed through the Morgan door, they needed to pay attention to one another and talk to one another. Neither of them could take what they had for granted; neither of them could stop paying attention to the other.

Loving another person was largely a matter of paying a certain kind of ceaseless attention to the person. He and Sarah might have unique challenges in one way, but in another, they faced the problem all couples faced: being willing to be known by the other person and being willing to know the other person. The easiest thing was to fall into the trap of projecting a fantasy of yourself and accepting a fantasy of the other person and then losing track of reality. He loved Sarah and she loved him. That was real. He was not going to let it become unreal if he could help it—he knew she wouldn't either. But that did not mean that they wouldn't both make mistakes along the way. Mistakes, though—paradoxically—were part of what it meant for their love for each other to be real. Only a fantasy could be mistake-free.

Chuck reached over and gently ran the back of his fingers against Sarah's cheek as she shut off the car. She took his hand and pressed it more firmly against her.

"What was that for?" She looked at him while keeping his hand in place.

"I just wanted to feel the warmth of your skin." His words were as gentle as his touch. She smiled at him, moved his hand so that she could kiss his fingers.

"Can you give me the binoculars?" She slipped into mission-mode, let him watch her do it. Chuck did the same, to the extent that he could, since his mission-mode was a pale imitation of hers. He retrieved the binoculars and gave them to her. She looked at the house.

"I see two men on the porch." Anger sounded in her voice. She handed Chuck the glasses so that he could look. He did and he flashed.

The flash was smooth, painless as if he had just remembered something he had been trying to remember. When it ended, he realized there had been no outward manifestation of the flash. He handed the binoculars back to Sarah.

"Those are both FBI agents who work for Fulcrum. The blond guy is Whitcomb, the bald guy is Reardon. They're dirty."

Sarah looked at him in puzzlement. "You flashed?"

Chuck nodded. "Welcome to the exciting world of the stealth flash!"

Sarah grinned and looked back through the binoculars. "I think they've already been in the house. They seem to be waiting. I made sure Mom left in a way consistent with her having just gone to the store or to the bank or to a neighbor or whatever. Yes, they are walking away and are getting into a car. A blue Mercury parked in front of a house three doors down from Mom." Sarah turned back to Chuck. "The _stealth flash_? Doesn't that sound oxymoronic?"

Chuck grinned. "Uh, yeah, now that you mention it, it does. But please don't call it _oxymoronic_ around Casey. He does not need any new form of 'moron' to use in relation to me."

"I have to say—I find the stealth flash a little unnerving." She said this while looking through the binoculars.

"Why?"

"I just liked knowing when it happened. Now, I will have to wonder any time you are looking at me if you are stealth flashing. That will be strange."

"Worried that I will be undressing you with my…compu-mind?"

She smiled in response while still looking through the binoculars. "Something like that. But, now that I think about it, I already always know when you are doing that with your compu-mind…or your compu-eyes."

Chuck blushed. "You do? I'm sorry, Sarah. I try to be respectful, really. But I love you so much and you are so beautiful and sometimes a memory of us making love just pops up and…"

Her soft laughter filled the car. "Just pops up, huh? I hope you are always this easy, Chuck. –Hmmm. They are leaving. Let's wait on the waiters. I have a feeling they won't be gone long. Just shaking the bushes to see if anyone responds to the change."

Sarah was right. About five minutes later the car returned and then took up its previous post.

"Well, Sarah, what do we do?"

"They don't know we're here. That's good. I don't think they can see the back door from where they are. No one else seems to be involved. Likely figured two trained FBI agents could _handle_ Mom and Molly." Chuck could hear the now-familiar edge to her voice that often presaged injury to someone else. "I have an idea." She got up and worked her way between the front seats. Given what he had just said, Chuck kept his eyes front. She slipped back into her seat but had a tranq pistol in her hand.

"Where did that come from?"

"Oh, I have weapons stashed all over the car. Never know when you might need one, when someone might, say, take you hostage using your own car. It's my automobile version of the home _thirty-foot rule_. In your car, never be more than three feet from a weapon."

Chuck marveled at her, shaking his head. "I am now officially frightened to touch anything in this car."

"Anything?" Sarah asked this while handing him the tranq gun, enjoying his puzzlement about whether she was asking about the gun or herself.

"Maybe not anything."

"Good. Now, here's what we are going to do. Get out on your side and stay low—and remember you are tall, so I mean _low_. Get behind those bushes there, " she pointed to some just on the other side of the sidewalk.

"I will get out on your side too. It may take me a second to do it. We will go behind this house and then cut through backyards until we get to the street that runs behind where they are parked. Traffic on the streets here is usually slow—lots of kids playing.

"We will wait for a truck and cross the street by staying on the far side of it, then we'll take the backyards to Mom's back door. Once we are in the house, I will tell you the rest."

Chuck grinned. "Cool. 'Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.'"

"Just my luck, you pick now to share a proverb."

"Proverb? No, well, that's Ferris Bueller. You know, running through the yards…"

"Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?" Sarah kept asking.

"Yeah, you know, that movie…Oh."

Sarah laughed and pushed him toward the door. He opened it and bent low and ran to the bushes.

Sarah followed, the set of her face declaring that all chatter was over. They did as she planned. They got lucky. When it came time to cross the street behind the Mercury, an Ice Cream truck rolled slowly toward them. They walked alongside it, hidden from view.

Then they cut across backyards carefully, carefully using fences and bushes and other sources of concealment, until they got to the house. Sarah picked up a flowerpot by the door and pulled off a key duct-taped to the bottom. A moment later they were inside.

Sarah took his hand and led him through the house. It was modestly sized, modestly but thoughtfully furnished, and very clean. Emma's taste and obvious love of order reminded Chuck of Ellie. Like Ellie's apartment, the house was homey. Sarah opened one of the doors in the short hallway.

"This was my room. I think Mom's using it for Molly now. Wait here. Stay back from the window, but you can see the front yard from here, the front door. I'll be back in a minute." Sarah stepped out of the room.

Chuck looked around him. There was a crib in the corner of the room and a changing table. A mobile hung above the crib. But otherwise, the room seemed to be the room of a girl, not a toddler.

Chuck saw a photograph that he knew immediately was of Sarah. Even at eight or so, the promise of her beauty was already there, but what drew Chuck's attention were her blue eyes.

They were bright, and although there was a hint of reserve, they shone with an unconscious and unsuppressed revelation of Sarah's tenderness. Chuck had seen her eyes like that—but only when they were alone together. To see her eyes openly tender, as she was photographed, moved him deeply. He blinked away tears and continued looking around.

He saw a dollhouse, some stuffed animals, a butterfly net and a small wooden box with tightly knit wire sides—Chuck realized it was a box for keeping insects, perhaps butterflies. There were books and books, a whole tall bookcase full of them.

Most were pretty standard fare for a precocious girl, but some drew Chuck's attention as unusual. Dickens' _Captain Murderer_ , a few random copies of the Hardy Boys and of Nancy Drew, but—as far as Chuck could tell—the entire 43 volumes of _Alfred Hitchcock's Three Investigators_. Chuck laughed aloud when he found a copy of _Harriet the Spy_.

As he looked at the books, he kept checking outside. No sign of the Fulcrum agents so far.

There were several books of children's verse and a Thorndike-Barnhart Junior Dictionary. He picked up the latter and was intrigued to find word after word marked with an 'X' in heavy pencil.

Sarah came in. Chuck registered her arrival but was looking at the Dictionary. Sarah glanced down at it.

"I got on a word kick one summer and Mom bought me that. We would look up any word that I read or heard that I didn't know. Then I had to find an opportunity to use it correctly in a sentence. When I had done that, we marked the word."

"So you were a bookworm as a girl?"

"I guess. When Mom and Dad fought, books let me escape. They filled the long silences. Sometimes the only words I got were from the page. I read a lot in those years."

Sarah fell silent for a few seconds.

"But after a while, on the road with Dad, it just didn't work. We traveled light. One small suitcase apiece. We had to be able to pull up and go at a moment's notice.

"And after a while, reading started to depress me. Books made my 'adventures' with Dad look more and more…sordid. I began to understand what we were really doing. I tried to stall that knowledge for as long as I could.

"I started reading again while I was at Harvard, but I stopped when I got started going on missions for reasons similar to when I stopped while with Dad."

Chuck looked at her sympathetically, then he did a double take: she had put on some of her mom's clothes. Chuck had only seen Emma at a distance, but Sarah, in those clothes and with her hair pinned back, looked remarkably like her mom. She spun around. "What do you think?"

"Hard to know how to answer that safely, so let me just say: you look like your mom, as far as I can tell."

"Good. You have the tranq gun?" Chuck nodded. "Ok. I am going to go onto the porch for a few seconds and let them see me. I won't be out there long. I will come in and position myself. I would like to take these two alive. I'd like to know what they know. So, I want you to tranq them. I will be ready to shoot them if necessary." She had her pistol with its silencer on it in her hand. "Let's see if we can't catch ourselves some dirty FBI agents. If they split up, I don't expect it since they likely believe they are after no one who is a threat, but if they do, then you take the one at the front door and I will take the one at the back. You can do this, Chuck, I believe in you. I love you."

Chuck found a good spot, hidden by the opening that led from the living room into the kitchen. All he needed to do was to step into the opening and fire. It was getting close to midmorning. The front of the house was brightly lit by the sunlight streaming through the picture window in the living room. Chuck checked to make sure that no glare would interfere when he needed to fire. He was ready.

Chuck took his place. Sarah walked out onto the porch, stood gazing out into the neighborhood, shielding her eyes from the growing glare with her hand. She stood like that for a few seconds, then turned and walked inside. She slipped into the doorway to the TV room.

About a minute later: sounds of footfalls on the porch. They were quiet, but the old wood porch was creaky. Chuck heard someone fiddling with the lock and the front door swing slowly open.

* * *

Casey was standing in the parking lot of the Buy More. Casey had discovered that Vincent and his henchmen had earwigs. He and Cheryl rushed to the parking lot just in time to stop a van before it could get out of its spot. The driver surrendered. Inside, they found a remote detonator, along with coms and a computer, and weapons and ammunition. Vincent could have stopped the detonation at any time just by giving the word.

Casey added the driver to Vincent and the henchmen. No one was dead, although several of the henchmen were wounded. Vincent was going to have a very serious headache for a long time; he probably had a concussion. But the cruelest blow had come when Casey explained the non-professional status of the young woman who had bested him.

Casey's chest swelled with pride when Morgan told him the story of Alex's fight with Vincent. Her comment to Casey before going into the duct was not empty bravado. But, after all, she was his daughter and Kathleen's. Empty bravado was not a…family…trait.

Beckman had called in an NSA medical team and they had tended to Bob, who would be laid up for a while, but would likely make a full recovery. Cheryl was worried about him, but her quick thinking and her belt had averted serious blood loss. Beckman had sent Cheryl with Bob to the hospital.

Alex had bruised ribs. Morgan's ankle was badly sprained. They had checked out fine otherwise. Pretty lucky, all things considered.

Casey had ordered Morgan to see that Alex got home. He and Morgan were going to have to have a serious, sit-down talk soon, but not today. Today, Casey knew, he was going to have to have a serious, sit-down talk with Kathleen. He could not send her home without at least trying to explain. He vaguely wished the Fulcrum agents hadn't been beaten. He would rather face them—a horde of them—or be their hostage than face one righteously angry Kathleen. Casey was never a coward though. He would do what needed to be done.

* * *

Chuck waited as he heard the door swing open, forcing himself to count: one, two, three. Then he wheeled into the opening with the tranq gun up. Both Whitcomb and Reardon had come in the door. Chuck exhaled as he fired. He hit Whitcomb in the leg—not where he'd been aiming, but it would do. Reardon spun toward Chuck. Chuck aimed again and fired. He hit Reardon in the chest—where he had been aiming. Both agents slumped to the floor.

Sarah was standing, watching, her gun trained on the men. Chuck saw her. He understood. He had been so involved in the plan he hadn't thought about the plan.

She had let him do this, he realized, to make a point to him. They were _partners_ now, whatever exactly that meant given Chuck's nebulous status as the Intersect. But she had made him a fully functioning member of Team Bartowski—not just its compu-mascot—much as he had made her one of Team Piranha. She wasn't trying to make him a spy; in fact, he knew she did not want him to be a spy. But she was willing to share her spy life with him as an equal. No part of her life was off-limits to him. No part of their life together was structured by the handler/asset relationship. She hadn't left him in the car and would not do so again. It was her correction of the morning's mistake.

Chuck knew there was now just one team. When they got back to Burbank, he needed to work that out with Beckman. The goals were clear, and he expected Beckman to agree with them. Find Leader (his mom), end Fulcrum, destroy the Intersect.

Sarah disarmed the tranquilized men and then took out her phone. She called a number for the CIA mission center in Las Vegas. She gave them a series of code words and then waited. When the right person got on the line, she explained the situation in bare terms. She asked for a team to come and collect the Fulcrum agents and to take them to holding cells for interrogation. After a bit more talk, she ended the call. She went to a table in the living room and pulled a phone book out of it. She thumbed through it, grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote down an address.

"They'll be here in forty-five minutes and take these two into custody. Let me change and then I'll go to the car and get cuffs. They'll be out for hours, but we should be careful. Then we'll go get your dad and my mom and Molly. I want you to meet Mom and Molly." She smiled at the prospect.

"I'd like that."

A few minutes later, the Fulcrum agents cuffed and still unconscious, and Sarah back in her own clothes, they left the house. It took no time to get to the parking garage. Emma was feeding Molly and Stephen was amusing the little girl by making faces at her as she ate. The three of them seemed at ease. They were sitting in the open back of Emma's SUV. There was a long round of reunion hugs between Sarah and her mom and Molly. Then introductions, Chuck to Emma, and Stephen to Emma. After that, Sarah and her mom feel into serious, quiet conversation.

"So, how did it go?" Stephen asked Chuck. He briefly explained the situation. "Ok," Stephen said, "good. What now?"

Chuck started to shrug when Sarah spoke up. "Now, we finish feeding Molly. Then we go to Mom's. Then Mom and Stephen and Molly go to Burbank. Chuck and I drive into Vegas. I want to talk to those two Fulcrum agents."

Chuck watched Emma finish feeding Molly. Sarah held her as her mother wiped Molly's face and hands. The little blond girl was a beauty. While her features were not, of course, like Sarah's or her mother's, her coloring was the same. She was bubbly and happy, even in the strange circumstances. She seemed immediately comfortable with Sarah, as if she remembered her. And Sarah with her was transformed. Her features softened, her inner tension released—and her blue eyes shone with the tenderness of the photograph. Chuck was transfixed. Sarah beckoned him over to where she was standing with Molly.

"Molly, I want you to meet someone very special, someone who will be lucky enough to spend his life with you and who you will be lucky enough to spend your life with. This, along with my Mom, is my gift to you, little one. This is _Chuck_."

The little girl smiled shyly at him, then reached for him. Chuck took her in his arms. Chuck looked into the little girl's impossibly clear eyes and fell in. He began to talk to her and, as his dad had, make faces at her. As she laughed, Chuck was only vaguely aware that Sarah and her mom had embraced, and that the two of them—and his dad—were tearfully watching him with Molly.

They left the parking garage after Sarah got a call informing her that the Fulcrum agents had been collected and were being taken to Vegas. They returned to the house. Emma gathered up various things for her and for Molly, while Chuck and his dad partially dismantled the crib so as to fit it into the rear of Emma's car.

As they worked, Chuck told his dad the story of how Molly came into Sarah's life, who Ryker was, what Sarah had done. His dad listened carefully to what Chuck told him. When Sarah came in to check on the progress, Stephen stepped toward her.

"Sarah, I applaud what you have done and are doing for this little girl. If there is any way I can help, know that I will." He held out his hand, awkwardly, for a handshake. Chuck could see that Sarah was happy about that. She shook Stephen's hand. It was a start.

They stood in the driveway together for a few minutes. After a round of hugs and some last minute instructions, Stephen drove Emma and Molly away in Emma's car. They were heading to Burbank.

* * *

Chuck called Ellie to alert her to what was coming, a bunch of significant changes in one SUV. She listened in a kind of stupor, especially when she found out about her dad and about Molly. But she rallied quickly; she knew there would be time for discussion later, and she had some of Chuck's genius for rallying. She promised that she and Devon would be ready for them when they arrived. Chuck told her that he and Sarah should be three hours or so behind them.

* * *

Chuck got into the Porsche. Sarah looked at him strangely, as if she were sizing him up. "How're you holding up, slugger?"

Chuck grinned. "I'm ok, actually."

"And all this stuff with your dad and mom?"

"Well, it's got to be worked out. But you'll help me, right."

She smiled at him, that tender look in her eyes. "Always and forever, Chuck."

She backed out to the driveway and soon they were winding to Vegas. Chuck let himself drift as she drove, letting the events of the morning settle into a place, even if a temporary one, in his mind and heart. His dad had at least made a gesture toward Sarah at the end; that was good. The news about his mom was gruesome, awful. But she had been so little a part of his life for so long that it struck him as awful news about someone he barely knew, almost a stranger. She wasn't a stranger of course, and he was far, far from indifferent to it, but he could not get her plight any nearer to him right now than he already had. Maybe if he had seen her face instead of Leader's…He wondered if her having seen him had meant anything to her.

Sarah was humming tunelessly beside him. He looked at her and smiled. She noticed and smiled back. She slowed the Porsche and then came to a stop. Chuck looked up, expecting to see a characterless government building. Instead, he saw the marquee of Union Station. Evidently, there was one in Vegas too, not just in Reno. Chuck rubbed his eyes. No, really, it was Union Station. _Union Station_ , _Where Your Journey to Happiness Begins_.

"I know it's a lot, Chuck. We have a chance to do this. We can do it bigger and fancier, if you want, later, but I want this _now_ , while I know we can have it. Who knows what is going to happen? This life won't give us a break. The Intersect won't give us a break. I say we make this one for ourselves. Here is the wedding chapel, what's keeping us from getting married? I know we didn't literally get all the way to Reno—but is this close enough, Reno enough? Life moves pretty fast, Chuck. I don't want to go another day not being your wife if you will have me.

"Well, Chuck? What do you say?"

Chuck turned from her and looked at the flashing neon marquee.


	47. Chapter 46: Babel to Byzantium

A/N Do you hear it? Wait, wait…Are those jingle bells or wedding bells? Thanks for reading, reviewing and PMing. Enjoy 2018.

Don't own Chuck. Don't own Vegas or anything therein.

* * *

CHAPTER 46 Babel to Byzantium

* * *

 _I am about to make my home_

 _In the bell's summit…_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 87_

* * *

"Chuck?"

He was still looking at the marquee. He grabbed the door handle and got out of the car. He went to Sarah's door and opened it, extending his hand to her. She took it and got out. He put his hands on her hips and she rested hers in the crooks of his arms.

"Sarah, yes…"

Her eyes clouded for a second. "Yes, _but_ …?"

"No."

More clouds. " _No_?"

"No. Yes."

"Chuck, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying No to 'No' and Yes to you. Yes. Yes, I will marry you."

Unclouded blue. "Chuck! I love you!" She kissed him.

Sarah looked closely at him. "Are you sure there wasn't a 'but'?"

"Yes, but there was an 'and'?"

"Oh. And…?"

"And when did this occur to you, O Mistress of Knives?"

She laughed.

"Well, if you recall, O Master of Hacks, back when you proposed in my room I said we should go to Reno when we got the chance…or I started to say that. Jill messed things up, remember?"

"I do. (Just practicing. But _I do_.) I think maybe you did say that and I said we didn't have to go all the way to Reno, but I thought you insisted we did?"

"Yes, I did. (Can't figure out how to get 'I do' to fit there.) But when you quoted Ferris Bueller…, well, I do…I did…I am."

"Bueller? You're kidding?"

She shook her head, looking up at him shyly. "Not kidding. It hit me: why not do what I know we both want? We're already sort of on the lam or playing hooky. Why not take the day and get married?

"While I changed, I used Mom's computer. I found this Union Station and then I was sure it was meant to be. I filled out a pre-application form for the license. We just have to get to the Bureau—just a block up the street—and get in the Express Lane.

"We can be back here and be married probably in less than an hour. I also made dinner reservations. So, we should go ahead and do this, if we are doing it, and then talk to the Fulcrum agents, so we don't miss the reservation. We can call Ellie and tell her we'll be a little later than we thought." She could not contain her smile, could not even control it. She outshone the marquee.

Chuck's smile matched hers. "Lead the way, then, Mrs. Bartowski-to-be. Take me to the Bureau; do with me as you will."

Sarah grabbed his hand and led him along the sidewalk so quickly he had to jog to keep up.

* * *

Casey poured himself a cup of coffee and one for Kathleen. The mugs he kept in Castle were old and chipped. Each had a Marine Corps insignia, although the cups did not match.

Kathleen was seated at the central table in Castle. Casey put the steaming mug down in front of her carefully. She sat watching him closely, absorbed in each move he made, still clearly unable fully to credit the evidence of her senses, to believe that he was alive. Casey put his cup down across from hers and slid into the chair.

She grabbed the mug with both hands and drank a little, careful of it burning her. Casey sipped at his. He kept wishing he was small enough to hide behind it.

"So…Alex, she's amazing, Kathleen. You did a great job."

"Yes, I did. But she's made of stern stuff… _John_?"

"If you don't mind. It's been a long time since I heard 'Alexander'."

"Me, too."

Long pause. Long pause. Long pause.

Kathleen cleared her throat. "So, you are some kind of secret agent? 007?"

Casey grunted. "Not exactly. I'm NSA. I am part of a team located here in Burbank. This is our HQ, I guess. We call it 'Castle'."

Kathleen shook her head as if she understood that, but her eyes showed that she didn't.

"Look, Kathleen, you have every right to be furious with me. Every right to hate me. I made a decision that affected you—more than I ever knew—and it has dogged my steps every day of my life. I don't have the words to apologize. That's not because I am verbally challenged, but because no words could do the job. But I am sorry."

"I'm sorry too, John. Sorry for the life we might have had, the happy family we might have been. But, for what it is worth, although I am shocked to see you, and although I am so very, very angry, I am oddly not _surprised_ —on some level.

"You always took seriously the values to which others only paid lip service. I know you had your reasons. I know they must have seemed good ones to you at the time, extremely good ones because you would not have given me up lightly."

Kathleen paused to catch her breath. Her voice was beginning to shake audibly.

"I know, John, I _know_ you loved me. I remember your face when you proposed and when I said 'Yes'."

"I've always had that moment, Kathleen, to stand in the stead of all the others I missed…"

She looked up at the ceiling, raising her brows and lifting her face, blinking, as if the tilt of her head might slow the tears.

Casey was moved to eloquence, his pain was so complete: "I memorized you, Kath. You walked as if to music. Your dress embraced you, clinging to each part of you. Your smile…My God, Kathleen, I am sorry!"

He dropped his head in his hands. She lowered her face.

"Have there there been…others, John. I know there must have been."

Casey bit the inside of his cheek. He did not want this part of this conversation—not his side or it or hers. But there it was.

"Yes, Kathleen, a couple. But none eclipsed you. The memory of you was always there, my understanding that they were standing in for you. I suppose that is the most important reason why they didn't work. I couldn't make a promise to them that I reneged on with you. It would have made what I did to you more…dishonorable…than it was. I won't lie and say that I did not…care for them. But there has only been one proposal in my life. There won't be another."

"There has been only one acceptance of a proposal in mine. I have been asked since, John, but I always felt that I had already answered that question once and for all, already said 'Yes' to it. I couldn't properly be asked it again. There's something off about asking an engaged woman to become engaged to you…But there have been others for me too.

"I wish you had told me about being pregnant." Casey was offering no challenge, no charge against her. He was genuinely expressing a genuine wish. He made sure she could see and feel that.

"I do too. But I wanted you to choose me for me, like you had when you proposed. I was afraid that if I told you I would manipulate you—and that I would always wonder if you had chosen me for me, or because I was pregnant. That sounds pretty weak in retrospect. I guess that's the problem with reasons—we act on them facing the future, but assess them facing the past. They rarely show the same face to the past they do to the future.

"I should have told you. She was yours too. She is yours too—as she showed today. She's always had you in her. Fierce, loyal, a little too quick to get angry," she smiled with one corner of her mouth, "no patience with nonsense. A tendency toward a language of grunts."

Casey smiled at her, nodding.

"So you didn't die?"

"Nope."

"You faked…your death. Why?"

"You know how much I wanted to be in Special Forces. That was my dream, enlisting." Kathleen nodded once. "Well, for reasons that were never made clear I got passed over, my application was rejected. That crushed me. I struggled with it.

"A commander I had then, Keller, asked me if I would be willing to become part of an NSA black-ops team, a team so elite and so secret that no one who was part of it was on the books under their own name.

"The cost of joining was putting off Alex Coburn and putting on John Casey. I suspect that Keller actually blocked my application for Special Forces so he could manipulate me onto the black-ops team. I should have been Special Forces.

"Keller wrapped himself and all the rest of us in the flag. _Black-ops_ soldiers imagining themselves _red, white_ and _blue_. He had us doing things no one should ever do—and reciting "Old Glory" and George C. Scott's Patton speeches to us as we did them.

"You know, whether you believe in God or not, if you take God, Country, and Corps seriously, then you at least acknowledge that your country is answerable for what it does. It is not the final authority. I knew that. I let Keller make me forget it for a time. He was running us mostly off-book. I found that out later.

"The black-ops team began to stink so bad that the higher ups could not ignore it. Keller went down—dishonorably discharged—and they broke up the team. The worst guys on it were quietly imprisoned. The rest of us got reassigned. I became a spy for the NSA.

"I thought about coming back to you then, Kathleen, I really did. But I carried that stench with me. I've been hunting my lost honor ever since. I haven't always made the best decisions. I've sometimes reverted to being Keller's boy. I…I don't have a calm center…" He looked lost for a minute and then he brightened. "But my current commander, Beckman, is honorable—at least, she tries hard to be. And my current team—you haven't met them yet, I hope you will soon, they have given me a chance to capture my honor again.

"Maybe you could give me a _chance_ too…?"

Casey stalled out. Speeches were definitely not his thing. But he had said what he felt he owed her to say, at least for now.

She looked at him for a long time. Her eyes were vortices, briefly and unstably registering a host of emotions at such speed it dizzied Casey.

"I don't know, John. Alexander. John. I don't know. Give me time; I still don't quite believe you are alive, and you can't begin to give a chance to a corpse. Get to know Alex; she's so worth knowing. I will…let you know something when the kaleidoscope in my chest stops turning round and round."

Kathleen got up. Casey showed her out. They parted without knowing what to say to each other.

* * *

Beckman was at the table when Casey got back downstairs. "Well, I finally got _a text_ —a text—from Sarah. _One does not send Generals texts_." Beckman seemed angry and amused and relieved. "Anyway, she and Chuck are fine and in…Boulder City, Nevada. Some kind of rescue operation. I assume it has something to do with the execution of this Ryker and a mission she had in Budapest months ago. She says the rescue was successful. Her exact words were: 'Rescue going according to plan.' They should be back in Burbank late tonight. Those two and I are going to have to have a serious, sit-down talk."

Casey grunted. "Seems to be the order of the day."

* * *

Inside Union Station, the décor was, well, train station-like. Couples stood on platforms like platforms at train stations and were wed by officiants in conductor's garb. It was all remarkably, and given Chuck and Sarah's giddy state, wonderfully camp. Chuck smiled at it all.

They had speedily gotten the license, using, as Sarah said, the Express Lane. They filled out the necessary paperwork in the entrance to Union Station. An ancient woman, employed, it seemed likely, since Washington's inauguration, handed them varieties of paperwork with shaky hands. She sold them two plain gold wedding bands.

She smiled at them kindly, but her shifting dentures made the smile crooked on her face and gave her kindness a manic look. She stamped their paperwork and sent them to Conductor Dickey. Sarah turned to Chuck as he did to her and they silently said 'Dickey?' to each other.

Dickey turned out to be a small, officious man who seemed as though life had pranked him cruelly. He was, by character and temperament, bodily shape and comportment, a man who should have been an actual conductor. Instead, he was a fake conductor but a real wedding officiant: conducting couples on their journeys, not to New York or San Francisco, but to Happiness—a smaller but grander city, and harder to find. He did not hate his job by any means. He liked it. But it was still a cruel prank for life to have him get dressed every day to do the job he did not have but longed to have.

Sarah was standing on _Platform-A_. She was wearing the clothes they had arrived in, as was Chuck. Chuck had bought her a small bouquet of flowers from the ancient woman in the front while Sarah filled out her part of the paperwork. She stood there, and between her small bouquet and her huge smile, she had never looked lovelier.

Chuck joined her and took one of her hands. She looked at him with a frank and open gaze, her love for him palpable in it.

Dickey began.

* * *

Dickey's "We are gathered here together" sounded more like "All Aboard" to Sarah. But she just did not care. She was all aboard. So was Chuck.

* * *

Chuck was standing in front of Sarah Walker and she was marrying him. To say she was lovely separated 'lovely' too far from 'Sarah': better to simply name her _Loveliness._ Her gaze was gentle and sure. Sarah had believed in him until he began to believe in himself. She was the great catalyst for change in his life. She had made sunlit happiness a destination for a man entombed and half-alive in a Buy More. She was his reanimator, his happiness, his destination, and his destiny. _Sarah_. "I do."

* * *

Sarah was standing in front of Chuck Bartowski and he was marrying her. He was every inch desirable. Chuck looked at her so devotedly that she found it hard to breathe.

But he had been so devoted from the first day, really. Although she had mostly unintentionally but (it hurt her to admit) sometimes intentionally tested that devotion, it had never wavered. His faith in her goodness was the cornerstone of her faith in her goodness.

Beckman had said Chuck would help bear her burdens. Beckman did not know how truly she had spoken—the man was her Baggage Handler, every last bit as good as his word. He had been assisting her with her burdens since she met him in the Buy More. _Her Chuck_. "I do."

* * *

It took only a few minutes to promise their lives. Sarah left Union Station with her hands full. In one, she was holding Chuck's hand (in his other, he was carrying her bouquet), and in the other, she was holding their wedding certificate, their ticket to the journey to happiness.

* * *

They drove to the characterless government building Chuck expected. He had spent the short time in the car in mute wonder.

They got out but before they went in, Sarah retrieved a Dodger's cap from a bag in the car. He handed it to Chuck. "Chuck, put it on and pull it low please. Don't look up. There might be cameras. This is a CIA facility, but remember, most of the CIA does not know about you. Let's keep it that way." Chuck pulled the hat down, surprised that it fit. Then he realized: it was _his_ hat.

"Sarah, is this my missing Dodger's cap?" She grinned and admitted it. "Is it the cap you were wearing the night you came through the Morgan Door?" A nod. "So you stole my cap at some point?" Nod. "So the night you came to see me, you had set _my_ cap for me?" Bigger grin, decided nod.

"You mean you never noticed?"

"I couldn't see anything but you. Kind of like right now, wife."

Sarah's grin grew. "Don't you dare lose _my_ cap, husband. That is a souvenir I cherish."

Chuck smiled. "You are welcome to it. I think I just promised you all my worldly goods anyway."

"Yes, you did. So let's get finished here. Celebrate over dinner. And…then we need to get back to Burbank. I texted Beckman while you finished your part of the paperwork. I have a feeling she was not happy about being texted. But at least she and Casey know we are ok. She…ah…made it clear that we need to get back."

They went inside. When Sarah flashed her ID at the front desk, Chuck saw the star-struck look the agent gave Sarah. She told him that Chuck was with her and the agent waved them in, still looking at Sarah as if he wanted an autograph but also worried she might kill him. _I'm married to the Ice Queen_. Looking at her melted his heart.

They went down a long wide hallway to a set of reinforced doors. The holding cells. An agent stationed at a small desk at the end of the hallway got up and opened the door. Sarah went inside. Chuck caught a glimpse of Whitcomb's and of Reardon's faces—hard, desperate men. The door closed. Chuck tried to make small talk with the guard. It was awkward though, both because the guard was uninterested and because Chuck kept trying to talk to him while keeping the bill of his cap in front of his face. Chuck gave up. The guy had no words. Chuck had no face. So Chuck stood there in a sea of dead air, waiting for his wife.

When Sarah came out, Chuck again glimpsed the faces of the Fulcrum agents. Both were terrified, broken. It had taken less than five minutes.

"So, anything?"

"They were the only team sent. I believed that given their behavior at the house. I was sure it was safe to send my mom and your dad off together, but I'm even surer now.

"Neither of them has ever seen Leader except on a TV screen. Both think Leader is getting erratic. The planning of missions is slipshod, hurried. Leader seems to have lost sight of any Fulcrum goals except ones connected to you, to the Intersect. And, your dad is right. The talk among Fulcrum agents is that Leader is in California. They don't know where."

"How did you get them to talk to you so fast?"

"I explained that they were keeping me from a very important date, one that they needed to respect because if I was late for it, I would return and make them the first known male donors to Wienerlicious. And then I reminded them of how the wieners get shoved down those sharp-ended sticks…They got my point."

"You have an…interesting mind, wife."

"Get me home, husband, and I will prove it to you with all your worldly goods."

"Was that a threat or an enticement?"

"Yes."

* * *

They got back in the car. After a few minutes drive, they parked. When they got out, they were standing in front of the Las Vegas replica of the Eiffel Tower. Sarah pointed at the top. "We have reservations for dinner up there, but we have some time. Want to go to the observation deck? We can wait there and go on to dinner."

"How'd you know I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower?"

"Tahoe. That day we went swimming. You thought this was in Reno. I told you it was here. One day we will get to the real one. But I thought if Las Vegas was Reno enough, this Tower might be Paris enough. For now."

He picked her up and swung her around. "Thank you, Sarah. For everything, for all of it, and for today—my strangest, awfullest, longest, most unexpected, perfect day. Thank you."

He put her down and she tiptoed herself back up to kiss him. "You are welcome." She hugged him after the kiss, holding out her hand as she rested her chin on his shoulder, looking at her hand, at her wedding ring.


	48. Chapter 47: Reversals

A/N A final deep breath before the Hunt for Leader commences. Thanks for all the reviews and PMs.

Don't own Chuck. Not a ninja.

* * *

CHAPTER 47 Reversals

* * *

 _"I am doubted, therefore I am. Does this mean that if I insist on making everybody doubt me more, I will become more real? It is enough to doubt them back."_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 9_

* * *

Morgan helped Alex out of her car. He let her lean against him as the climbed the steps up to the porch that ran around the duplex half of which was hers. It was painful, since his ankle was swollen and bruised.

She got her keys out of her purse and handed them to Morgan. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway that doubled as the entranceway to her apartment. She followed him in.

When he shut the door, she pushed him gently against the wall and kissed him hungrily.

"My bedroom is at the end of the hall, Morgan."

"Oh, good to know. That way, if anyone else needs to know, I can tell them."

"No, Morgan. I was not explaining the layout of my apartment, I was inviting you to my bed."

"Oh…ah…wow. Did they give you painkillers, by any chance?" He put his finger on her chin and looked closely at—and then into—her eyes.

Alex laughed breathily. "No. But thanks for asking that, Morgan. I am stone cold sober. And I want _you_."

Morgan's grin spread slowly. "But, my ankle is hurt and your ribs are hurt. I'm not sure I can stand. I'm pretty sure you can't lie down. How's this going to work?"

"Where there's a will, there's a way. And remember, I am…limber."

Morgan gulped audibly and then followed Alex down the hallway.

* * *

Casey was restless. He had overseen the transfer of Jill Roberts to the supermax facility team. He had washed his hands of her. But he couldn't quite shake the after-effects of the conversation with Kathleen.

He grabbed the keys to the Crown Vic and drove to Alex's address. She had given it to the NSA medical team. Casey had a copy.

He stopped the car out front and took the steps two at a time. He knocked.

* * *

Morgan had been half-dreamily replaying the afternoon, sitting up in bed. He had his bad leg propped on a pillow but was otherwise covered by his entirely uncovered...girlfriend. (Her word. She had explained it to him. They were boyfriend and girlfriend.) She was asleep and leaning against his chest.

He still couldn't _believe_ it. He also couldn't believe _it_. He had clearly underestimated the potential of the human body—in oh-so many ways.

He heard a knock at the door. Alex was still sleeping. Morgan slipped out from under her and propped her against the pillow he had been sitting against. She stirred but did not awaken.

Morgan couldn't find his shirt. The knock got more demanding. Morgan saw a basket of clean clothes in the doorway of Alex's closet. He grabbed a t-shirt from it and slipped it on along with his boxers. The t-shirt was black. On the front in white letters it read: _Ninjas Do It In The Dark_. Morgan limped as quickly as he could up the hallway and opened the door to find...John Casey. _Lord, have mercy!_

* * *

Stephen was driving the SUV. Emma was looking fixedly out the front window. They were both tired. Molly was sleeping peacefully in her car seat behind Emma. Stephen could see her innocent face in the rearview mirror.

Emma noticed him looking at Molly. "Stephen, do you have some problem with my daughter, with Sarah? You were looking at her before we left Boulder City like you had a painful variety of déjà vu. But you've never met her before, right?"

Stephen nodded. "I had never met her until this morning in Burbank. I…knew quite a bit about her, though."

"Well, I met her a long time ago, but I don't know quite a bit about her. I know she is a CIA agent. But I don't really even know how she got to be one. I hadn't seen her in person for years, not until she showed up with the little one. She stayed long enough to see that Molly was settled and to take care of instructions should something happen. (As it did.) But she didn't say much or explain anything about herself beyond what was required."

"What happened between you two, if I can ask?" Stephen kept his eyes on the road.

"Jack Newsome happened to us. Her father, my husband. Long story and unhappy."

Stephen tried to smile but grimaced. "I know too many of those."

"Then I will save this one for another time, Stephen." She gazed at him—but not unkindly. "But you never answered my question. Do they teach people like you and Sarah that at some spy school? She never answers questions either—at least not until today. I have a feeling that has something, no, everything, to do with your son."

Stephen thought about the long, cramped ride in the Porsche and his merciless questioning. She had answered his questions, merciless though he knew he had been. And it did have something, everything to do with his son. But what?

Was she really in love with Chuck or was this a deep-cover, long-term seduction, some way of gaining complete control over Chuck, the Intersect? How deep, how long, did a seduction have to be before it became reality? Had Mary really been his wife or was she always his handler? Was he ever her husband or always her asset? How could he ever know? Was there enough of her left for him to ever know the answers to these questions?

"So, you've been raising Molly as your granddaughter, not as your daughter?" Emma said she had. "Why?"

"Because I knew Sarah would come back, Stephen. I knew she loved that little girl and would eventually insist on being her mother."

"How could you possibly know that?" Stephen's voice was slightly strained.

"Because I know my daughter. I know because knowing a person is not just a matter of knowing things about them. It's not an addition problem, adding up things until you reach some number that counts as knowing them. It's a matter of letting them know you and a matter of trust."

"But if you only trust, you don't _know_."

"No, trusting is a way of knowing. I've thought about this a lot, Stephen. I was—I still _technically_ am—married to a confidence man. He could not make a living if trust and knowing were distinct in the way you think. But that's a topic for another day, a rainy one, say, when we both have a tall coffee and feel like a leisurely talk. I still want to know the answer to my question. You will not deflect me. Do you have some problem with Sarah?"

Stephen sighed. The mother and the daughter were interestingly alike. Both had deep inner reserves. Neither was anyone's fool. They were both _smart_.

"I worry about her…intentions with my son."

Emma laughed, a brief melody in the car. Stephen saw Molly smile in her sleep, seemingly in response to the sound.

"You're joking, right?"

"No. I have some…experience with handlers and assets. That's the relationship between your daughter and my son—or it was. I just have a hard time believing that a handler/asset relationship, once it is in place, ever goes away."

"Why would that be, Stephen? Human relationships are rarely structured in any one way. They are always surprisingly multiple. It is clear that your son is in some way my daughter's handler and she his asset, assuming I understand the terms. We just talked about her willingness to answer questions. She's learned that from your son. Do you think that's just an act too? She's so clever at pretending that she is acting like she is learning from your son?"

When he heard it put that way, Stephen had to admit it sounded…lame. A pretense was never that deep—it couldn't be or it wouldn't be a pretense. And wasn't that the answer to his own questions, his questions about Mary? Had Mary pretended to love him by making love to him and having his children? Had she pretended to love him by getting to know his friends and becoming their friends, and getting close to his parents before they died?

Was it possible, in some sense of 'possible', that that was what she had been doing? Yes, but it was also possible, in basically the same sense of 'possible', that the whole world was a dream, that all of reality was a fake. Maybe Stephen had taken his doubt of Mary a little too far…He thought of King Lear and Cordelia.

"Look, Stephen, shouldn't the burden of proof be in Sarah's favor in this? Shouldn't you believe that she loves your son until she actually gives you a compelling reason to believe that she doesn't? If not, if you insist on believing that she doesn't love him until she gives you a compelling reason to believe she does, doesn't that look like you actually doubt your own son, doubt that he is lovable, that she could love him? Do you think so little of Chuck?"

Stephen blushed at that. He had no response. The conversation had wheeled on him in an unexpected way.

* * *

Carina ended up back in Bryce's room. A spa afternoon—her way of staying out of her car and out of her hotel room—had her looking good and feeling...better. But she was still…sad…sad…and scared. She had to face it: _she was sad and scared_.

Bryce was lucid. He looked at her and gave a low whistle. "Now, that is a get-well card of the most impressive sort."

"Feeling a little more like yourself today, Bryce, I see." He nodded but then the swagger in his manner evaporated. "I _am_ but, like everything else with me right now, it comes and goes. But you do look beautiful, Carina. Thanks for stopping by looking like that. It was…kind of you."

That cheered Carina a bit. She decided. She needed to talk to someone. "Can I tell you about my last mission, Bryce?" He nodded, she sat down, and the words began to tumble out.

* * *

Stephen and Emma pulled into the apartment complex. Stephen got out of the car and went to the door of Ellie's apartment. He took a deep breath and knocked. She opened the door and looked at him the way Mary used to look at him when he had done something stupid. But there was an underlying layer of pain in the look that had not been part of the way Mary had looked at him.

"Dad." Not a question. Not a welcome. Just—a fact. She continued in a hushed tone. "Devon, the man I live with, the man I am going to marry, is here. How are we supposed to explain this to him?" Stephen heard heels on the sidewalk. He expected them. He turned around and saw Diane Beckman. "Good evening, General. I see you got my text."

At the word 'text' Beckman's face pinched. Stephen panicked. It seemed to be Stephen's day for coming out on the short end of interactions with women.

* * *

Morgan nearly needed to get another pair of boxers, but luckily his bowels were braver than he felt. Casey was looking at him like he was a thief. He watched in horror as Casey studied the t-shirt and read the slogan on it. Then he felt himself lifted off the earth and suspended in the sky. He was awfully glad Alex had tall ceilings.

Alex was awake. "Dad! Put my boyfriend back on the planet!" Casey did as he was told. But he growled and he growled. The apartment sounded like the soundtrack for a wolf documentary. Morgan got his feet on the floor and crossed his hands over his groin. He was prepared to die, even if he didn't know the salute.

But Alex was having none of it. "Yes, Dad, Morgan is my boyfriend. I just made love to him in my bedroom and we were resting together. You may as well know all this and begin _right_ now to deal. Because, I admit, the idea of having a dad is pretty new to me and still strange, but I _think_ I like it. I will like it a lot less, however, if he decides that since he missed my childhood, he will thrust me back into it. Not. Happening. So. Not. Happening. I am a grown woman. Am I being clear, _Dad_ …or do I need to call you _Mister Casey_ —and send you out of my life?"

Morgan then saw the sure sign of the apocalypse not recorded in any holy writ. John Casey shrank up like a scolded puppy and begged for forgiveness.

It was a day indeed for signs and wonders.

* * *

Kathleen got home in the taxi John paid for. She went right to her bed and fell on it. She wept. The thing she had prayed for, dreamt of, begged for had happened. Alex, John, was not dead. But he was alive so late. Was it possible to be well over two decades late for an appointment? And if it was, what sort of excuse could justify it?

She twisted and turned. She could not sleep. She got up and got her old photo album from the closet, the one she had stopped looking at because the pictures hurt too much. Pictures of her and John (she had to practice that name). Pictures of them happy. Pictures of them when they imagined a long life together. Those young lovers were gone. What was left in their place? An aging spy, and a woman who was seriously considering coloring her hair.

Time might heal wounds—but it could also cause them and reopen them. She went on thumbing through the pages, idly stroking the edges of her favorite photos.

* * *

Bryce tried to keep his expression steady. Had he heard that last sentence right? The whole story was sad, particularly with Carina Miller telling it. But that last bit?

"Carina, can you say that again?"

"I'm pregnant, Bryce."

* * *

Leader had smashed his monitor, toppled it to the floor. It was shattered and smoking. Burbank. Wrong! Boulder City. Wrong! The Intersect was still out there somewhere. the little girl had gotten away. Vincent Smith. Gone! Jill Roberts. Gone!

Leader's head would not stop hurting. Nothing made it better. Frost would not sleep. She would not rest. How could she be so strong after all this time?

The smashed monitor began to fizzle and pop and crack, and then a flame tongued up out of it. The orange of the flame smacked Leader like a blow. He reeled. He fell to his knees. Mary stood back up. She did not have long, a few seconds, a couple of minutes, and Leader would wrestle control back from her. She was desperately weak. Befogging their mind, keeping things in it unknown to or forgotten by Leader, had taxed her beyond any limit she had crossed before. Although she was in control now, she was unsure if a moment like this would, even could come again, if she would ever find a way back to the light. She punched some buttons. Leader would not let her give away the exact location. But maybe this would be enough...

Mary felt Leader rising inside her, rising to reclaim their mind. And, like a swimmer going down for the third time after a final, weak cry for help, Mary slid into the deep, cold dark.

* * *

After a dinner that both enjoyed more than the good food or the great view could possibly explain, Chuck and Sarah got back to the Porsche.

She opened the driver's door but stepped back and held the keys out to Chuck. He glanced at them and then at her, not understanding. She shook them so that they jangled.

"You drive, Chuck. I'm too happy to drive."

They headed home.


	49. Chapter 48: The Plot That Weaves

A/N1 And…we're off: The Hunt for Leader. This is the last of the concentrated, complicated Intersect talk. A necessary evil. Of course, there are other things going on too. Thanks for the reviews and PMs. Thanks for being you, gentle reader, and for putting up with me and my authorial humors.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 48 The Plot that Weaves

* * *

 _In family-sized capsules_

 _Well-provided_

 _Fly for Orion_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 68_

* * *

Stephen was looking at Beckman, who was standing in Ellie's apartment, holding a cup of coffee and ending a call.

Stephen and Devon had just come back into the living room. They had been re-assembling Molly's bed in Chuck and Sarah's apartment. Sarah's mother, Emma, was seated on the couch, holding Molly.

There had been a long session of introductions and explanations, coffee making and coffee pouring.

Poor Devon, he had been the farthest behind and so it had taken him longest to catch up. Stephen had enlisted him to re-assemble the bed in part out of mercy: Devon needed to breathe. Stephen had helped him come to some understanding of the situation as they worked. The guest room in Chuck and Sarah's apartment left ample room for Molly's bed.

Stephen realized when he and Devon entered the apartment (Ellie had twisted the arm of the on-site manager and gotten it unlocked) that Chuck and Sarah had not really settled in. It was bare except for the furniture—and that old _Tron_ poster Stephen had given to Chuck years ago.

Seeing it there made Stephen feel happier than he had in… _how long_?...forever? Emma was right: he should try to believe in his son—and that meant believing in his choices, Sarah first and foremost. He resolved to try.

They were all seated now. Emma and Molly. Devon and Ellie. Stephen. There was a knock at the door and a man entered. Stephen recognized him from a file photo. John Casey. He introduced himself and sat down. Another knock. In came a young woman with auburn hair, wearing a _Ninjas Do It In the Dark_ t-shirt. It must have been an in-joke between her and Casey because she smirked a little when she saw him try to hide a scowl in reaction to it.

Behind her was…Morgan Grimes! The next thing Stephen knew, Morgan had launched himself into Stephen and hugged him hard.

"Poppa B! Poppa B! What a day! You are alive! Alive!" Then Morgan stepped back and his excitement waned. "…And where the _hell_ have you been?"

Before Stephen could answer, the young woman introduced herself. Alex. She carried herself like…Casey. Oh, his daughter.

Another knock. A woman of Casey's age—but Stephen now could put it together. She was Alex's mother.

The woman—Kathleen, she said by way of introduction—looked around the room, smiling at Alex and Morgan. She ended up seating herself in a chair next to Casey. They clearly once were something to each other: their daughter was in the room. It was unclear what they were to each other now.

Stephen could feel the tensions in the room, streaming and eddying.

Devon was unhappy with Ellie. Ellie was unhappy with Stephen, as were Beckman and Emma to different degrees and for different reasons. Casey seemed unsure how to even look at Grimes. Grimes did not, carefully did not, look at Casey.

Casey did not, carefully did not, look at Kathleen. But she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, deep in consideration. Alex kept looking at Morgan with a dreamy look. But when she looked at Casey, the dreaminess lifted and her lips took on a determined set.

Only Molly seemed wholly happy to be where she was.

Molly reached out for Beckman and, to Stephen's surprise, Beckman took her. With Molly on her lap, Beckman began to talk.

"Stephen _texted_ me and asked me to come. He thinks it is now time we all got on the same page. I do too. I just talked to Chuck and to Sarah. They are _en route_. I've caught them up on the events here. They know we are having this meeting. Ellie," Beckman turned to Ellie, and Stephen's chest hurt when he realized beautiful she was, how much like her mother she was, "Chuck has deputized you to speak for what he called _Team Piranha_. Is that right?"

Piranha? The hacker? Wait, of course, _his son_. Chuck is the Piranha. Stephen felt a surge of pride and a twinge of worry. Beckman noticed Stephen's face change. "I take it, Stephen (or should I call you 'Orion'?), that name means something to you too?" Various faces showed interest at 'Orion' but no one spoke.

"'Stephen' will do. Yes, the Piranha is a famous computer hacker. Nearly my equal years ago before he disappeared, maybe by now my equal. He had vanished for some years. I take it that Chuck is the Piranha?"

Beckman was shaking her head, speculatively, when Ellie spoke. "Yes, Dad, he's a chip off the old hard drive…" She almost spat the words at him. "No thanks to you, really. At best you supplied the hardware—I got to supply the software."

Stephen closed his eyes. He had dreamt idly of reunions with his children during enshadowed and lonely hours. None of those dreamt-of reunions had involved so much vitriol as the ones today. But then again, in those dreams, he was grading his performance as their father on a curve—imagining they knew the long, moaning nightmare his life had been after their mother left, imagining they could feel the love for them that tore him in two, driving him to protect them and so to stay away, and to be their father and so to go home. He let Ellie's remark pass.

"Ok, Ellie, please tell us more." Beckman looked from Ellie to smile at Molly, who was fingering the pocket of Beckman's blouse (she was still in her civilian clothes). Beckman cooed at Molly under her breath-but she was listening intently.

Ellie told the story of Team Piranha—from the beginning. Chuck's plans, his constant fear of Graham and early fear of Beckman, his hopes to rid himself of the Intersect. The nature of Sarah's involvement. Stephen's involvement. The progress with the Intersect. The physical combat skills. Everyone was paying attention.

Beckman was not happy about the story, Stephen could tell. But he could also tell that she did not find what Chuck had done…unreasonable. Her frustration was primarily with circumstance, with the way Graham's role with Team Bartowski had made Team Piranha a necessity from Chuck's point of view. Stephen could also tell that Beckman was frustrated with herself, took herself to have underestimated Chuck. Her manner suggested she had done it before. That seemed a common mistake-underestimating Chuck. Graham had been its greatest advocate, evidently.

Beckman: "About Graham. I got word earlier that Graham passed away. He never roused from the catatonia. The doctor I talked to said that Graham simply had no will to live."

Although no one in the room who had feelings for Graham had warm feelings for him, they all gave his passing a moment of silence.

* * *

Stephen asked, "What happened to Graham?" Beckman told Stephen and the room the story. Stephen was flabbergasted. He had no idea Graham had ever implanted the Intersect. He sat looking at the floor. He had inadvertently created another monster. He lost track of what Beckman was saying for a while…

* * *

"…So, I want there to be one Team, Team Bartowski." Beckman smiled slightly when she said the name, and Stephen, looking up, wondered what caused it. "The team will be here, and it will have two parts, a spy team—Chuck and Sarah and Casey—and a research team, Ellie, and Stephen (and Chuck too, I suppose). We are fighting a two-front war, one against Fulcrum, the other against the Intersect itself…"

Stephen spoke up. "Actually, General, it is a one-front war against an allied force. The Intersect and Fulcrum are, in a sense, _one_."

Stephen then told Mary's story—Hartley, Volkoff, Leader, and Fulcrum. Beckman was stunned into a grave silence. No one spoke, but Ellie was crying softly, and Devon was saying her name gently and rubbing her hands. Stephen looked at her: "Mom went to help Hartley. It all went so wrong, Ellie. I am so sorry."

Despite his expecting just the opposite, Ellie smiled weakly at him through her tears. "At least there was a reason, Dad, at least you two had _a reason_ to abandon us. I never knew how the parents I loved could have done that. But I now know there was a reason and I know how awful that reason was…"

Beckman was processing. She was not running the NSA for no reason. "So, although I have many questions, let me just ask you this one now, Stephen. Do you think that if we could find Leader and take her, we could effectively neutralize Fulcrum?"

"I do. Because if we find Leader…if we find Mary…we will also find the seat of the Hydra Network, the vast computer system that Leader depends on for virtually everything. Volkoff built it, using Hartley's computer savvy and mixing in things Hartley remembered from my work. If we take Mary and use the Network to identify Fulcrum's agents, Fulcrum will be crippled. If your agents strike quickly, you could effectively disassemble Fulcrum before anyone could step into the power vacuum."

"Do you think there is any chance that Leader…I'm sorry, that Mary, could be saved?" Stephen was about to confess that he thought it unlikely when Ellie jumped into the conversation, wiping her eyes.

"I do think so. I've not just been planning my wedding and working, I have been thinking, thinking hard.

"I discovered the Agent X—the Hartley Winterbottom/Volkoff—file on your computer, Dad. Your notes were cryptic, but I have begun to understand how you think. I was able to reverse engineer what you were up to. Part of the problem with the ancestral Intersect is that you conceptualized your problem as an engineer, as a purely technical problem, not as a neurologist, not conceptually." Ellie wiped her eyes again, warming to the topic.

"The best picture of the human mind, Dad, is _the human body_ —not the human brain. The brain is part of the enabling story of what we—of what persons, minds—do. The brain does nothing on its own—not in the sense that you or I can do something on our own.

"The brain is an important part of the story of our agency, absolutely; but it is not an agent. You thought of the existing personality as itself a program, like the one you were going to implant. But a person's existing personality, call it her organic personality, comes to be as a result of her biological inheritance and her encounters with the world. It is not a program. The brain is not a computer that runs the program.

"You misled yourself, Dad, by treating an analogy as an identity. Human beings are analogous to computers in certain ways. But they are not computers, not identical to computers. To think they are is to commit a category-mistake, like thinking _blue is a speed_. The hardware/software distinction—despite my use of it before, despite how useful it is—does not apply straightforwardly to human beings. As an engineer, you seemed to think it did," Stephen winced slightly,"sorry, Dad, but you did. Occupational psychosis: isn't that what it is called? _If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail_. That led you to misunderstand the relationship between a personality and a body.

"An organic personality does not get _put into_ a body: for lack of a better phrase, it rather grows out of the body and again grows back into the body, in a lifelong, complicated process. Your implanted personality, call it the computational personality, has no 'place' in the body it is implanted into. It is a 'personality' only in an attenuated sense. Once implanted, it is a strange thing in a stranger's land. It has no home in that body. It is an exiled thing...

"That's the very general explanation for the problems your implants created. You thought you were adding a program to a program, personality traits to a personality. But you were instead adding a program to a person, subroutines to a personality. They could not really ever cooperate or co-exist; there could be no true interface.

"Anyhow, enough of the general explanation—you and I can hash that out later. Here's my point. In effect, you introduced an alien, parasitic presence into the mind of Hartley. He did the same to Mom. The implant was not parasitic on its own. It became that once implanted, in unpredictable ways.

"Our recent work with Chuck, remember, was about making the descendent Intersect _symbiotic_ , not parasitic. Chuck's Intersect has no pretensions to being a personality. It is not an implant like its ancestors. We also made it possible to turn it on and off. We need to figure out how to take what we did for Chuck and modify it to help Mom.

"So...We have Bryce Larkin. He needs our help and his plight is not so serious as Mom's.

"Let's see if we can help him and if we can, then I think we can help Mom. The CIA doctors aren't making any real progress, Chuck says. He's been eager for me to get involved but wanted to get all of this settled with the General: what we are doing tonight.

"Maybe we can fix Bryce. Maybe we can't get Leader _out_ of Mom but we could render him…non-aggressive—and maybe Mom could just turn him _off_? No matter how strong the Leader computational personality seems, that is _Mom's body_ , hers is its organic personality. It will be there, salvageable, until its organic basis is destroyed. We just need to give her a fighting chance."

Stephen listened carefully, with growing excitement.

Ellie was right. He thought he had made a technical mistake that needed a technical solution. A more advanced technology built especially for the task. But he'd made a conceptual mistake. His mistake needed a technical solution, but not the sort he had thought. He had been like a man trying to figure out how to _push_ a door open, building machines to do it, when the door had to be _pulled_.

He stood up. His son was the Piranha—and a hero. His daughter was a _brilliant_ neurosurgeon—and an extraordinary person.

He had no right to feel the pride he felt, and he knew it, but he felt it anyway. The three of them, with the rest of the Team, might be able to save Mary after all. For the first time in a long time...in forever?...Stephen felt a glimmer of hope.

"I think you are right, Ellie. I have conceptualized the problem the wrong way. I think I already have an idea how to start. Can we get to work tomorrow?"

Ellie beamed though her eyes were still red. She could feel his radiant pride from across the room. "Sure, Dad."

Beckman took back over. She explained that her analysts had heard no Fulcrum chatter since the attacks in Burbank and Boulder City. For the moment, Leader seemed to be neutralized. As they talked, Devon ordered pizzas and Ellie made a salad; Stephen saw Devon kiss her in the kitchen.

The conversation went on as everyone ate—and for a long time after that. Some of the tensions in the room eased. Others not.

* * *

Stephen eventually went back to Chuck and Sarah's apartment. He walked Emma and Molly over and was going to stay until they were settled. He grabbed Chuck's computer. After a few minutes, he was on the back channel he used with Mary. There was a message there.

* * *

Sarah was curled up comfortably in the passenger seat, asleep. She had her bouquet cupped in her hands. Chuck shook his head, still trying to come to terms with it: _his wife_. He thought back to her first appearance in the Buy More when he and Morgan had assigned her a cover—as Vicki Vale. He wondered what she had seen, what she had thought as she walked toward him. Those steps she had taken toward him were the most significant steps of his life.

They were now walking together into a future that had come speeding toward them. He'd know her _what_? A year or so. They had dated a few weeks, been engaged a few hours, it seemed, and now they were married. But Chuck knew that way of telling their time together was a mistake.

They had been a couple since she walked to the Nerd Herd desk, really. When she touched his hand there, _that_ had been their engagement. His "I will be your baggage handler" and her "I like you, Chuck" had been their unacknowledged wedding vows.

They'd been an unwittingly married couple pretending to be dating while they actually wanted to be dating— (whew!) from almost the beginning. Now they were a wittingly (was that a word?) married couple, full stop.

 _Sigh_.

The question was not how it had happened so fast, but how it had taken so long. Anyway, Chuck did not give a damn about the clock. He loved the sleeping beauty beside him with all his heart.

But now the problem was his head.

He and Sarah had agreed with Beckman (on the phone) about bringing everyone in, one big Team. He knew Ellie would explain what he had been up to. Now, he needed to start planning for his future. _He was going to get the Intersect out of his head_. What then? Then what?

He had a wife…and a daughter. (That made him happy and it made him hyperventilate for a few seconds.) What happened when they finished with the Intersect and with Fulcrum?

Chuck set his mind to work on the future as he drove in the dark, his wife sleeping peacefully beside him.

* * *

Bryce had heard Carina right.

"Ok, Carina. For how long?"

"Not long. A few weeks. The DEA physical after the mission included a blood test and it revealed _little him or her_. It's still early. Anything could happen…"

"Are you going to keep it?"

Carina closed her eyes for a minute, chewing on her bottom lip. "I don't know. I have never been tempted even to imagine myself having a child. Nothing about me, nothing about my life, is open to another person, really, much less a child. I wouldn't know where to begin. And with no father…I'm scared, Bryce, scared to keep it and scared not to keep it."

"Have you talked to anyone else about this? Sarah?"

"I've tried. But she is ignoring her phone for some reason. I need to talk to her."

Reminded, Carina dug her phone out of her bag and looked at it for the first time since she had gone to the spa. There was a text from Sarah, a couple of hours old.

 _Sorry, Carina, had to go out of town. Come by for coffee in the morning? I need to talk to you too._

The address Sarah sent was not her apartment's address—Carina did not need that address. It was in the same apartment complex as Chuck's apartment, but not his apartment. Evidently, Sarah had some things to share too.

* * *

Leader sat in the rubble of his cell.

He had destroyed everything in his rage. She had been in control for a few minutes. Frost. The cell could be reconstructed, but it would take a few days to do it. It would mean leaving his cell and going to another, to avoid the chance of waking her up. It would mean some days in the dark.

Maybe that would be good. It would be a chance to concentrate on her. It would be a chance to finally run the Frost Queen to the ground and to grind her out of their mind. Leader's fingers and arms were bleeding but he would not look down. The sight of blood, of red, had the strongest power to wake her up.

No, Leader would sit and bleed until the henchmen came with dinner. Then Leader would be attended to, eat, give instructions on repairing the cell.

Leader could go into the cool, dark tomb of the new cell. The only problem with the plan was that the temporary cell would not be soundproofed as well as this one. Leader would be able to hear the water. But maybe that would lull Frost, not awaken her.

* * *

Stephen looked at the message from Mary. He knew there was something about the interplay between Leader and Mary that made it impossible for her to disclose her whereabouts in any direct way. She had to think _around_ her location, as it were, in a way that Leader did not recognize or understand, sneak up on it.

Mary's message was this:

 _Carmen Sandiego knows where in the world. But Carmen does not know that she knows._

 _M_

What did that mean?

* * *

Beckman found Roan in the hotel bar. He was sipping a drink and reading an issue of _GQ_. He looked good. When he saw her, she could see the tension in his shoulders ease. He smiled. He ordered her a nightcap. She sighed. It had been a long day; it had started in what Frank Sinatra would call the wee small hours. She was happy enough about its results, however.

Team Bartowski had grown (and that was a risk) but, despite their various issues with one another, the people on the Team were united in their affection for Chuck and for Sarah. Or for Casey.

Chuck had shared the news of the wedding on the phone. Beckman kept it to herself; it was their news to share. She was happy for them, very happy. _Union Station_. The rescue had proceeded (almost) according to her plan. Beckman smiled.

She had to admit, she felt a little like Cupid. And, as she looked at Roan and as her drink gave her a surprising a second wind, she thought perhaps the day would end with her feeling a little like Aphrodite.

* * *

AN2 The chapter title here is from a Brothers Martin tune. It's off the same album as the song, "Missionary", that plays near the end of the first episode of _Chuck_.

49 chapters in 50 days. I must seem crazy. But the truth is that the story is sort of writing me...I hope you're enjoying the reading as much as I am the writing. Drop me a line and let me know.


	50. Chapter 49: Wives and Daughters

A/N Onward. Chapter title here is the title to one of my all-time favorites, Elizabeth Gaskell's final novel, _Wives and Daughters_.

This chapter brought to you by countless cups of black coffee.

Don't own Chuck. Not a penny made.

* * *

CHAPTER 49 Wives and Daughters

 _Eve moves: golden Mother of baroque lights…_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 36_

* * *

Sarah woke up.

Someone was in the apartment. She started to grab her gun but she recognized Emma's voice. She was talking to Molly—while feeding her breakfast, from the sound and content of Emma's talk.

Sarah looked over. Chuck. Her husband. She settled in against him, taking a moment to watch him sleep. She only sort-of remembered getting home. She had slept so soundly—she never slept in cars!—that she had hardly registered their arrival. She was only conscious enough to feel Chuck pick her up and carry her all the way from the car to the apartment. He had somehow managed to unlock the door and to carry her inside. Across the threshold. Home.

She could see her bouquet on the nightstand. Chuck had found a vase and taken care of it before he slept. Of course, he had.

She heard a soft knock on the bedroom door, followed by a whisper. "Sarah, honey, are you awake?"

"Yes, Mom. Come in." Sarah spoke only just loud enough to be heard.

Emma opened the door and entered with Molly, whose face glowed from a recent scrubbing—probably to remove the breakfast that she had gotten near but not into her mouth. When Molly saw Sarah she reached for her. Sarah's arms and her heart reached for Molly.

"Look, Molly, it's your momma." Sarah took the little girl but felt briefly light-headed. Momma? Yes, that was the choice she had made—with Chuck. She was in bed with her sleeping husband, holding her smiling child and talking to her glowing mother.

This was her new life; she was just beginning to live it.

Chuck had awakened. When Sarah looked over at him again, he was gazing at her holding Molly. "Sarah Bartowski, " he said as he leaned in for, and she gave him, a kiss, "you are officially a real girl." He grinned: he meant it _and_ he was teasing her.

She looked at him a moment longer, then back at Molly and at her mom. "Maybe a little too real…" Her voice trembled a little.

"It's ok, Sarah, we'll take it one mission at a time, one game at a time, one day at a time. We don't have to raise Molly in one day, or live our lives in one day, despite our recent history…"

Chuck gave Molly a kiss and a muzzle and she cackled. Sarah's eyes filled but she blinked the tears back.

"We got married yesterday, Mom."

"I know, I saw the ring when you reached for Molly. Spy mom, remember? I couldn't be happier for you both, for all three of you, for all four of us."

She kissed Sarah, stretched to kiss Chuck, and gave Molly a quick peck.

"Even now that you know my family has taken dysfunctional to previously unscaled, computer-aided heights?" Chuck seemed worried.

"Your family's story so far is a sad one, as ours," she looked meaningfully at Sarah, "has been. But the story isn't over yet, Chuck. Your father, despite his understandable troubles, is clearly a genius—and you and your sister are clearly his children. Your mother is a woman of remarkable fortitude—and you and your sister are clearly _her_ children too. I'd say you are all remarkable. And, anyway, _every family had its ups and downs_ —yours has just had higher ups and deeper downs."

Chuck smiled with rue. "That's a kind—and a kind of _Lion in Winter_ —way of putting that, Emma. I think we are going to enjoy getting to know each other…"

"Me too, Chuck."

Sarah pulled Molly close and leaned back into Chuck's chest. _All this_ —because she climbed through an unlocked window.

* * *

Ellie and Stephen met in Castle and started working.

Things between them were better than they were when Stephen knocked on her door, but they were still miles from satisfactory. Still, they had work to do. They settled in and got to it. Later in the day, they were scheduled to visit with Bryce. As they began to work and talk, their mutual admiration grew, and the tension between them began to lessen.

"Dad, one thing I don't understand. I haven't talked about this with Chuck because I didn't want to worry him—although he may be worried about it and just not letting on. Chuck was the very first person to download the ancestral Intersect, wasn't he? Why hasn't it played havoc with him?"

"I've thought about that for years. When I realized what he had done, I was terrified. But I believe the answer comes in two parts: first, the version of the ancestral Intersect your brother got had no personality traits in it. It was the pure framework, even purer than the one that I suspect Graham got. That's part of the story.

"The other part is your brother. Even as a boy, he was remarkably emotionally balanced, remarkable empathetic, remarkably emotionally mature. He had his bad days, of course. He was often—and still is, I gather—silly. But he is emotionally _rubbery_ : he bounces—like the Bumble on the Christmas special you and he liked so much when you were little. With the bearded guy…"

"Yukon Cornelius?..."

"Yes, him. Anyway, I think the Intersect couldn't get a handhold on Chuck, couldn't find a loose string to use to unravel him. Something like that. –Ellie, do you trust Sarah?"

Ellie kept typing for a minute. "Yes, Dad, I do. I really do. That was an abrupt change of topic."

"Not really. I have been worried that she is just playing Chuck, running some kind of long-term seduction. Emma verbally smacked me around yesterday about that. She said that my suspicions of Sarah rebounded onto Chuck—that by doubting Sarah's feelings for him I was doubting that Chuck could be the object of such feelings…"

"Emma makes sense. You see, Dad, I raised him, " Stephen looked away, "and I know that he is lovable. I have never thought that Sarah was out of his league or that he was crazy to have set his cap for her. I always thought she was the lucky one. She thinks so too. She isn't just pretending to think so. I've seen her wrecked by Chuck, Dad." She remembered Sarah in the door of the lab, after Reno. "She was not pretending. That woman loves your son."

"Well, I was thinking this morning over coffee that there must be something about them together that makes him right for her, that explains her feelings."

"Dad, not everything in life reduces to an equation, as much as I know you want it to."

"I know. I just thought that Chuck's rubberiness and balance must be part of the story. Only someone like Chuck could have loved her steadily enough, wholly enough, to bring her around. Do you know about her past? What she has done?"

"No, Dad, not much. I don't want to know. If she wants or needs me to know, _she_ will tell me. I would think that you would be the last person who wants people judged by their pasts…"

Stephen clamped his mouth shut. It was a little like talking to Mary had been. She had constantly shattered his attempts to turn life into an engineering problem.

After a moment, he changed topics. "So, I got a message from your Mom. I think it is supposed to help us find her location. But I don't understand it. I gave it to Beckman. She has CIA cryptologists working furiously on it. The problem is, your Mom doesn't ordinary encode her messages. They are riddles, not codes. But I don't get this one."

He handed Ellie a piece of paper on which he had written Mary's message. She looked at it, studied it.

"Huh. _Carmen Sandiego?_ The old video game, edutainment, TV show…I wonder that Mom would even have remembered it.

"Chuck and Morgan liked the video game for a while—but I think that was because they were both in love with Carmen. Could Mom be in San Diego? Is there some part of San Diego called 'Carmen'?"

"I looked. I didn't see anything on maps or on computer searches that linked the city to a district or neighborhood or an address with 'Carmen' in it. Anyway, the second part is hard to square with Carmen being a _place_ —although maybe it is. Right now, I am stumped."

"Have you showed it to Chuck and Sarah?"

"Not yet. I wanted to give them the morning with Molly and Emma without intruding."

* * *

Alex knocked on her mom's door.

She had been worried about her last night. They had both suddenly been drawn into a spy drama—but a spy drama with extra drama, since Alex's dad and her mom's great love turned out to be a part of it, not to mention Alex's friend, Sarah, and Sarah's boyfriend, Chuck.

Her mom had turned down Alex's offer to go home with her. She said she needed to be alone. So Alex agreed. But enough was enough. They needed to talk.

When her mom opened the door, Alex could tell that she hadn't gotten much sleep. She was bleary-eyed and groggy. She beckoned Alex in. Alex sat down at the breakfast counter that ran along one side of the kitchen. Her mom poured Alex a cup of coffee and refilled her own. She pushed Alex's cup toward her then leaned against the other side of the counter.

"How are you, Mom? You don't look great." She sipped her coffee while waiting for an answer.

"Ah, Alex, ever the diplomat."

"What use is there dancing around things, Mom? Better to just face them. So, how are you?"

"Miserable. In a word."

"I understand. This has been hard enough for me and I don't have the history with him. For me, it's like someone stepped into a blank spot in my life. For you, it's like he's stepping into the place occupied by his younger self, and you've been in love with that younger self forever."

"Yes, that's it, Alex. I am in love with him. _Again_. _Still_. With John. Can't help it. I knew it almost the moment I saw him. But I can't decide if I love him or I love the memory of him that now encircles him, like the atmosphere of a planet. I don't know if I _can_ love John, given what he has done to me, given what I know."

"You do love him but you can't? Do you think that holing up here and tossing and turning in your bed is likely to get you an answer, Mom, really?"

Her mom sighed. "No, I guess not. I guess I have no choice but to get to know the man that I may still be in love with. What do you think he feels about me?"

"I think he still loves you. He may not have seen you all these years. But he never believed you were dead. You were always there for him to love. I admit, he can be a bit of an ass, but I like him."

She told her mom about the ill-timed visit of yesterday. Her mom brightened, laughing. She took Alex's hand.

"I'm glad for you that you've found someone you care for. I know you have been lonely. And I am glad you put John in his place. He always got away with too much because he intimidated people so."

"Well, Mom, you intimidate him. Go and see him. Spend some time with him. Maybe not right now but when you feel up to it."

* * *

Sarah was sitting on the couch with Molly. Chuck was in the kitchen, cleaning up after their breakfast. There was a knock at the door.

Chuck was elbows-deep in dishwater—he insisted on washing the dishes by hand even though they had a dishwasher. So Sarah told him to keep at it. She hoisted Molly and went to the door. When she opened it, Carina stood in the doorway.

Sarah had seen Carina surprised when she found out about the engagement. But Carina's surprise at seeing Sarah with Molly in her arms was truly profound. Her mouth moved but words had left her.

To Sarah's own profound surprise, Carina began suddenly to cry.

Sarah grabbed Carina's shoulder and led her inside. "Carina, are you ok?" Chuck grabbed a dishtowel and began to dry his hands. He followed them into the living room, concern on his face.

Carina sat down. She wiped her eyes. "Sorry. I just never expected…that." She nodded at Molly in Sarah's arms.

"Carina, this is Molly. She is my…daughter."

"Good God, Walker, you can sure keep a secret! When the hell did you have a baby?"

"I didn't. Remember you once asked me about that mission to Budapest, the one I said I couldn't talk about? This, Molly, was the package I was tasked to retrieve…"

Sarah told the story to Carina. It was the first time Chuck had heard her tell it, although he had read the letter. Hearing her tell it, now, was a measure of the difference in the woman he loved.

Her telling was still brusque and clinical in certain ways, but the emotions she had felt at the time were now part of the telling of the story, either mentioned or openly registered in her way of relating a detail.

Of course, the story now contained a new chapter, yesterday's. Carina listened with undivided attention.

"So you left her with your Mom, but your Mom knew you would come back for her? Why, Sarah? Why go back? You saved her. Your Mom would have raised her. Wasn't that good enough?"

"I thought so—for a while. Eventually, I discovered it wasn't. I felt responsible for her, not in a bad way, in a good way. Like taking care of her was a privilege I had been given or earned, or both, somehow."

"So you two went and rescued her and your mom yesterday? Where _is_ your mom? I would love to meet Sarah Walker's _mother_."

Sarah grinned. That would be a scene worth seeing. "She went to the store. We have no food in our apartment."

" _Your_ apartment—you…and Chuck…and Molly?" Sarah nodded.

Carina threw her hands into the air and stood up, waving her arms. "Everything is upside-down. Is there anything else I should know?"

Carina's tone suggested that there could not be anything else.

Sarah shrugged and held out her left hand. Carina froze in place. "Didn't you just show me an engagement ring? What the hell…?"

"We got married in Vegas." Sarah was beaming.

Carina collapsed back onto the couch. "I think I'm having the vapors—and I didn't believe those were a real thing." She fanned her face with her hand.

But then her features became very serious. Carina looked up at Chuck.

"Chuck, could you give us a minute. I have something—something about me—I need to tell…your wife…and I am not sure I can tell it with you here. Sorry."

"That's ok, Carina. I have some work I need to do on the computer anyway, emails." Chuck took the dishtowel back into the kitchen and then went back to the bedroom.

Sarah looked at Carina closely.

Sarah had gotten a strange feeling from Carina when they visited Bryce, during their talk about Sarah's engagement and Sarah's feelings for Chuck.

Carina admitted she had been reflecting on Sarah's love life on the plane.

That was not normal Carina behavior.

Carina was smart. But she did not spend her mental energy on tasks like reflecting on herself or her friends. She took things as they came and worked to make the best of them—in the moment—on the fly. That was her way.

Carina would reflect on and plan a mission, Carina would not reflect on and plan Carina—or her friends. Still, that seemed like what had been going on.

Sarah came out of her reverie. Carina was gazing Molly with a helpless fascination. Then she forced herself to look at Sarah and forced her mouth into motion.

"My last mission. I went dark for a month, Sarah. And there was this asset…"

"And?"

"Todd."

"And?"

"And I developed him, as per my orders. He was, by mistake, a minor criminal-but a he was, by nature, a major attraction.

"I had no order to seduce him. You know I wouldn't take _an order_ like that. I'd maim anyone who gave me one. He was doing all that I asked without even a hint of anything like that, much less the promise of it.

"Todd had gotten involved with some bad folks, drug kingpins. He was going to help us bring them down. He wanted out. He wanted to clear his name. But you know my assets and me. I get bored and lonely. I don't have your _rules_." She looked from Sarah down the hallway to the bedroom door. "I was going to be there for a month, and he was attractive—I mentioned that, right?—and so eventually I bedded him."

" _Eventually_?" Sarah raised one eyebrow.

"Before the end of the first week."

"Did something bad happen? Oh, Carina, he didn't… _hurt_ you?"

"No, no, Sarah, nothing like that. It was good—in the way such things are good. He was nice to me, more than nice. But it was all _the same_ to me. It was all the same as the last time with a different man who was nice to me. I had no attachment to Todd. I would not let myself have an attachment to Todd, even if I wanted to. I liked him, but…"

Carina gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

"It meant nothing. I was with Todd but not with Todd, the way I had been with-but-not-with every man in my life. 'With' for me is nothing more than a preposition of spatial position.

"I have never been with a man in the way you are _with_ Chuck. I have avoided so much as spending any time with any man like that. Worse, really: I would not let any man _be_ a man like that around me. Everything about me—my clothes, my walk, my talk, everything about me crowds out the nice guys or crowds out the niceness of the nice guys.

"Todd got shot just when we thought the mission had ended. One of the DEA guys working with us flipped on us, sold Todd out. No one saw it coming. But there he was, bleeding out on the ground, and I was the first person to him—the last one too. I couldn't stop the blood. As the life ran from his eyes, he whispered to me…"

"Oh, Carina," Sarah cried softly, believing she knew what was coming, "he loved you! He told you he loved you."

Carina sat for a moment without reaction. Then she pressed her lips together and wiped the corners of her eyes.

"No, Sarah, he told me he could have fallen in love with me. He didn't mean if we had more time; he meant if I had allowed it. He died…explaining to that to me...

"I don't know if I could have fallen in love with Todd. Probably not, and that makes it all worse."

Molly had fallen asleep on Sarah's shoulder. The only sound for a few seconds was Molly's steady breathing.

"Anyway, I got back from the mission…in emotional pieces. During my exit physical, a blood test showed that I was—that I _am_ —pregnant. The baby is Todd's."

Sarah's mouth moved but words left her.

Finally: "But weren't you on the standard birth control shots? Aren't those state-of-the-art effective?" Sarah regretted the words as soon as she said them. Carina looked hurt. Sarah's questions were not the right response. Carina answered her anyway.

"Yes, I was on the shots. And, yes, they are really effective. But, it turns out, no contraceptive is one hundred percent effective. And you know me, " Carina's voice was bitter with self-mockery, "I always beat the odds." She dropped her head.

"I'm sorry, Carina. I spoke without thinking. So, how are you?"

"Well, I am in this state: the sight of my best friend carrying a child makes me weep. And I am not far enough along to blame that on hormones, I think.

"I don't know how I am. That's why I needed to see you and talk to you. You seem to be doing ok."

Sarah smiled cautiously. "I have been…a mom for all of two hours or so. In a minute, Molly will wake up and start crying for Mom or for something, and I will be in an absolute panic.

"I've always known—as part of protecting Chuck—how far it is from these apartments to the parking lot. I'm sure I will consider how fast I could sprint the distance at least once before today is over, Carina."

"You mean you'd leave Chuck and Molly?" Carina was puzzled.

"No, Carina, I mean it will cross my mind. I have run before," Sarah said, thinking of her reaction to the kiss in front of the bomb, of her reaction in Reno. "But I won't run again. That it crosses my mind will not mean I am tempted to run. It will mean that I understand that I am here by choice. I will have to make that choice again every day for the rest of my life because that is the sort of choice it is. I will make it. I won't be tempted not to make it."

Sarah paused. "But that will not free me from the need to make the choice. It is when people forget that they have to keep making that choice that they stop making it or eventually choose something else."

"My God, Chuck has loosened your tongue. Where is my monosyllabic blonde? I don't even know you anymore."

"No, Carina, and don't take this the wrong way, you really didn't know me _before_. Not as well as you thought, at any rate. I couldn't or wouldn't let you or anyone know me. You didn't know what I really wanted. You didn't know the thoughts in my head. For me, then, every word was a potentially disastrous self-revelation. I feared using words, giving myself away. So I didn't."

Sarah paused again. "I am not going to live like that anymore.

"And isn't this _the pot calling the kettle_? I mean, yes, you talked all the time, but you know you never really said much of anything. Like you mentioned earlier, your talk crowds out the niceness of the nice _guys_ , but it also crowds out the niceness of the nice _people_. You've always made it hard to be nice to you, Carina, even for your friends."

There was a long silence.

"I know. If I let anyone be nice to me, I'd be expected to be nice back—and who knows where that might lead.

"But that brings us back to my current problem. I don't know what to do. I am afraid to have the baby. I am afraid not to have it. What should I do?"

Another silence. Molly shifted on Sarah's shoulder but did not wake up.

"I don't know, Carina. All I know to say, all I am willing to say, is this: Don't be hasty. It is harder to know what you want, especially with big things in your life, than we think. I speak here from experience. I couldn't acknowledge what I wanted even though it was in front of me every day. I know you don't have long to decide, but don't be hasty. I'm here for you, Carina."

Carina got a funny look on her face. Her gaze shifted from Sarah to Molly.

"Can I…hold her?"

Sarah transferred the sleeper to Carina. Carina tried to get comfortable. She asked Sarah to tell her about the wedding.

Sarah did. As she finished talking about Chuck carrying her into the apartment, Chuck came out of the bedroom. He blinked at the sight of Carina holding Molly. It struck Sarah that Carina was holding Molly as a cobra might hold a mongoose if a cobra had arms. But she was holding her.

"I invited everyone over tonight, like you suggested, Sarah, so we can make one announcement." He looked excited.

"Great!" Sarah said, feeling her excitement mirror his own.

"You know, Chuck," Carina mused, "You've turned our always taciturn girl into a sometimes talky girl, even a kind of philosopher."

Chuck grinned. "Carina, you should know—Sarah is a deep file. This is the same woman," he pointed to Sarah, "who once told me when I was panicking about lying to everyone, that I was having—and I quote— _an existential spy crisis of sorts_.

"Who knows what deeps are beneath those beautiful blue eyes? I don't. I am willing to spend the time of my life finding out."

Carina closed her eyes in mock-disgust. "Oh, my God, he hasn't just ruined you, Sarah, you've ruined him too." She made a gesture as if she were gagging. They all laughed—but quietly, so as not to wake up Molly.

* * *

Over breakfast, Roan shook his head when Beckman explained what she had done. "So you are telling me, Diane, that you read them _all_ in? Did they understand what they were going to hear, how sensitive the information is?"

"Yes, before we got started, I told them all or made sure they knew. Grimes had talked to Alex and to Kathleen. Stephen already knew. Hell, he probably knows things going on in the NSA that I don't. Ellie would not let Stephen or me in the apartment until I gave the ok to tell her husband.

"Like Alex and Kathleen, Emma knew important parts of it already. None of those folks are _on_ the Team in the same sense that Chuck and Sarah and Casey are.

"The Team takes lying to heart—Chuck does, and it has rubbed off on Sarah and on to Casey too. They might be willing still to lie to bad people directly to save innocent lives but the Team would rather not have to do that if it can be avoided, and they certainly don't want to lie to the people they love.

"I decided to let them tell the truth to the people who matter in their lives. They will do a better job for it. Call these other folks Team Bartowski's _supporting cast_."

"But aren't those people in danger?"

"They already were. They are in Chuck's life in one way or another. That means they are in danger. Everyone agreed anyway. The situation is what it is. If Stephen and Ellie can figure this out, and if we can find Leader, maybe Chuck can be done with the Intersect and we can all be done with Fulcrum."

"And after that, Diane?"

"After that, Roan, I'd like to talk about you and me. Kathleen and John have made me start thinking more seriously about us…"

Roan looked concerned. "I meant what happens to them, Diane."

"I know, Roan."


	51. Chapter 50: Party Going

A/N Still onwards. Another title borrowed from a favorite novel, this one by the great master of sentences, Henry Green.

Lots of subplots to move along. Carmen Sandiego in the next chapter. Thanks for reading and responding!

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 50 Party Going

* * *

 _Words replaced by moods._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to Aces 3_

* * *

Carina parked her car at the hotel. She headed inside. Her visit to Sarah had not solved her problem, but it did bring it into focus.

Carina knew she had been lying to herself about her anxiety a the day before. She had not been anxious about nothing in particular. (She laughed at the twisty double negation. It fit her twisting state of mind.) She had been anxious because, deep down, she wanted to keep the baby—but did not see how she could do it. Seeing Sarah and Molly—and later, meeting Sarah's mom, Emma—had made her aware of that much. But it was impossible, wasn't it?

Carina's mom had been a theater actress in New York. She'd never been famous, but she had been able to keep work steady enough to raise Carina.

Carina's father had never been part of her story. He had left when her mom was pregnant with her and never shown up again in person, although he did send them monthly checks, and sent Carina a birthday and a Christmas gift every year.

Carina never met him until once, just a couple of years ago, when a mission took her near where he lived. She had arranged for them to have coffee together and they had. It was nice—but more like having coffee with your insurance agent than with your father. He was a tall, handsome man. Polite but distant, at least that day with her. They stayed in touch but irregularly and without much mutual feeling.

Her mom had loved Carina, no doubt about that. But an actress' life was demanding. When she was in a show, there were never-ending rehearsals and then the show itself, sometimes with two performances a day. Between shows, there was the brutal hustle of auditions. Once Carina was old enough to stay on her own, that was what she did, a lot. And whether in a show or auditioning, there were the parties her mother attended, parties Carina greedily listened to stories about but never got to attend herself.

It had not been a bad childhood—in many ways, she knew, it had been happier than the childhoods of lots of others (than Sarah's, for instance, given the little Sarah had told her).

Her mother died of cancer shortly after Carina graduated from high school. She went on to college at Syracuse, where she was a theater student for awhile before she got interested in the Criminal Justice program. She was recruited by the DEA before she graduated. And the rest, as they say, is history.

How could she have a baby? How could she be a mother?

She had loved her mom and knew her mom loved her, but her mom had been absent so much. She did not want to be an absentee mom.

How could she keep her job and not be one? How could she do her job with her trademark reckless abandon with a baby at home?

She had done nothing to prepare for such a thing. Her DC apartment was so foreign to her she probably couldn't remember its floor plan exactly.

There was nothing stable in her life or in her. Her friendship with Sarah was the only stable thing in her life since she had started at the DEA. She loved her job—or she had until the last few weeks.

Now she was just completely and totally mixed up. She was pregnant with a child she wanted but with no conception of how to keep it.

"Carina? Carina Miller?"

A voice called to her as she absentmindedly walked into the hotel lobby.

"General Beckman?"

It was Diane Beckman. Carina had worked on joint NSA and DEA missions and so had worked for Beckman a couple of times.

"What are you doing in Burbank, Carina?"

"I had some downtime after a long mission and I decided to spend it here visiting Sarah…"

"Sarah _Bartowski_?" The general's eyes gleamed.

"Oh, you know. I think they are having a party tonight to let everyone in on their secret."

"Right. I plan to be there. You will too?"

"Yes."

"They told me last night, so I am a little ahead of the curve. I've also met Molly."

The question was too near the surface of Carina's mind for her not to ask it: "Do you think Sarah can do it? Be a wife and a mother, Chuck and Molly—just like that?" Carina snapped her fingers.

"I don't think it has been just like that. I think she's wanted this for a long time. I believe she will surprise herself by how ready for it she is. I don't mean there won't be struggles, but a person can prepare herself for something without knowing that she is doing so. Besides, we are talking about Sarah. She does what she sets her mind to."

"Maybe." Carina drew the word out for a while, her own thoughts on the stretch. "I don't mean _maybe_ about Sarah. She gets things done; that's sure. I mean _maybe_ about preparing without knowing it. Are you going somewhere?'

"I'm going to see Bryce Larkin. Wait—you must know Larkin, right?"

"Yeah, and I have visited him myself a few times in the last few days. Would it be ok if I came with you?"

"I would enjoy that. We can talk more on the way. I also want to visit another agent, Bob. Do you know him?"

"No. But I'd be happy to meet him."

"How much do you know about what brought Sarah to Burbank, Carina?"

Carina started to play dumb, then decided that would not fool Beckman.

"Quite a bit. Sarah did a read-in with me in a few days ago and I talked more with her and Chuck this morning." She lowered her voice. "Orion, Frost, Leader…"

"So Sarah read you in? She's gotten as hard to control as her husband. It makes sense that she would take his name. No one can control a Bartowski—not even a US General."

Beckman's driver pulled up with the car and they got inside.

* * *

Ellie had never liked Bryce Larkin. Although, until the whole Stanford and Jill debacle, she had kept her dislike to herself for her Chuck's sake. Larkin was, from Ellie's point of view looking back, a shadowy version of her husband-to-be. He and Devon had similarly charmed lives: magazine handsome, smart, athletic. But Bryce had always seemed to have a hunger about him, and a hunger about those things, that made him work against anyone else having a similar claim to them.

Devon, by contrast, seemed hardly aware he even had those things. And he never bemoaned or begrudged someone else having them or even having more of them than he did.

For instance, it had always been clear to Ellie that Bryce resented Chuck's ready brilliance. Bryce was above average, Chuck was above above-average. Devon was in the same boat: for all Devon's gifts, he knew that Chuck had the more able, capacious mind. But Devon thought that was awesome—he really did. Bryce lived in a world structured top-to-bottom by comparisons with himself. Devon lived in a world without comparisons.

But Chuck and Sarah had told her about Bryce and she had found her way past her dislike. She wanted to help him. She was shocked when she saw him. He was still handsome and charming, but he had been…reduced. The sense of physical presence had been lessened. His easy good looks had been hardened somewhat.

But it was the change in the quality of his gaze that was most noticeable. His gaze had always swaggered and challenged—it tended to intimidate other men and to fascinate women. It had never fascinated Ellie, but she could see how it might do that to others.

She was surprised, though, when she found out that Sarah had been with Bryce. Ellie would have thought Sarah likely to be more annoyed by Bryce than attracted to him. But, then again, Ellie had not known Sarah in those days, had not known what difficulties she might have faced. It was easy enough to guess that Sarah had been lonely.

Certainly, Sarah was lonely when she got to Burbank, lonely when Ellie first met her, and it had been the continuing sense that Sarah was lonely that had maddened Ellie most when she tried to understand what was going on between Sarah and Chuck. How could Sarah have such obvious feelings for Chuck and be with him and still strike Ellie as lonely?

Anyway, Ellie did know that loneliness was a strong persuader: the desire to escape it could create strange bedfellows. She knew what it had done to her during the dark months after she and Devon had broken up. Ellie put that thought out of her mind.

Ellie and Stephen walked into Bryce's room. They had spent an hour or so with Bryce's lead physician, hearing what he had to say and looking over various tests and so on. She and her dad quickly agreed that the version of the Intersect that had been used on Bryce was a 'lighter' version of the ancestral technology. Fulcrum and Jill had not implanted a personality or a set of personality traits into Bryce. What they had done was more like making an artificially strong post-hypnotic suggestion, reinforced by repetitions.

Jill was able, via the programming, to control many of Bryce's thoughts and much of his action. At least, that had been the intention. Bryce's genuine feeling for Jill—a surprise to Ellie when she heard about it, and one that softened her a little—had given Bryce a psychological handhold, something real connected to Jill that let him eventually suss out that much was unreal.

The trouble was that the residue of the programming continually blurred the line for Bryce between what was real and what wasn't. (And Ellie suspected that line had never been as clear for Bryce as it should have been.)

Bryce turned his head toward them as they entered the room. Ellie immediately noticed his old gaze was mostly gone, replaced by a gaze warmer and more circumspect. It made Ellie think that somehow, overall, Bryce's changes were (or might be in time) an improvement.

* * *

Bryce's vision came back into focus as Ellie and Stephen entered his room. He realized he had been drifting.

He was shocked to see Stephen. He had not seen him in a long time. They had emailed each other and met a few times during Bryce's final year at Stanford. Stephen had played a role in keeping Chuck out of Project Omaha. Bryce had not said anything about that to Chuck yet. He was fairly sure Chuck had suspicions, but Bryce had been willing to shoulder all of the blame. He owed it to Chuck.

He also knew that he had yet again played Chuck false. He had been in touch with Chuck's dad and at a time when Chuck did not know where his dad was and was not even sure his dad was alive. Chuck had yet to mention this to Bryce if he even suspected it.

Stephen walked to Bryce with his hand extended. "Bryce, it has been a while. You know my daughter, Ellie, I think?"

"Good to see you, Stephen, and, yes, I know Ellie." He did, of course, and knew she had never liked him.

He had never been sure why. He had been his usual, charming self around her, but she had seemed inoculated against him somehow. Her eyes were wary but not hostile. Bryce would take that. She smiled tightly and nodded at him.

"We are here to help, Bryce. As you know, you've been implanted with a version of the Intersect technology. We are here to see if we can find a way to remove it or to render it harmless. As you know, I created the damn thing, and now I am chasing it around, trying to undo the damage it has done. Sorry, we're late to the party." Stephen was frowning.

"I'd be glad for any help you can give me, Stephen, Ellie, late or not."

They sat down by his bedside and began to ask him questions.

* * *

Kathleen had gotten an email forwarded to her by Morgan Grimes. She was invited to a party at Chuck and Sarah's new apartment. Chuck's note had been kind and friendly.

A part of her really did not want to go. Could she take another night next to John Casey? A part of her really did want to go. Could she take another night not next to John Casey? She sat in her kitchen for a few minutes, dithering.

Then she grabbed her keys. She was going to go. And she was going to buy a new dress and get her hair done. It was time to make John Casey suffer just a little for all those years they had spent apart.

* * *

Morgan called Alex. Yes, she was available for the party. She seemed a little annoyed at his question. She explained the boyfriend/girlfriend thing again. Morgan smiled. He liked it when she explained that. Maybe after the party, he could get her to explain it to him again—in pantomime. He trembled slightly and closed his eyes.

* * *

Lester smiled a wicked smile. He had heard that Chuck Bartowski and his beautiful blonde girlfriend were planning a party. He had also heard that Chuck's beautiful brunette sister was getting married at the end of the week.

It was time to unleash _Jeffster_. A guerilla musical attack on the party ought to get them the wedding gig. It was time for Lester to sing and Jeff to keytar _Jeffster_ into fame and fortune. Lester could take care of the song, he just needed _Jeffster_ to get him the wine and the women.

* * *

Sarah had quelled revolutions with a fork. She had single-handedly stared down despots and oligarchs and arms dealers. A small blond toddler had routed her.

Although Sarah had been trying to straighten and decorate the apartment, somehow Molly had not only undone all Sarah had tried to do, she had created a million more things to do. Molly had toddled or crawled over every square inch of the apartment, raising her small flag over it all in victory.

Chuck had tried and was trying to help, but he was as easily defeated as Sarah. Only Emma had a fighting chance—and she had finally gotten Molly to settle down and take an afternoon nap.

Sarah and Chuck were now numbly and exhaustedly trying to clear the battlefield.

Sarah looked at Chuck nervously. "Can we really do this, Chuck? Can we raise that little girl? She terrifies me."

"Me too. And I love it, and I think I love her already, and I know I love you."

Sarah wrapped her arms around Chuck and hugged him, noticing that he had Cheerios lodged among his brown curls. "I needed that. By the way, you have Cheerios in your hair."

Chuck smiled with one half of his face. "Of course, I do. Fortunes of war."

* * *

Casey stood near the door of the apartment, a drink in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. He was watching Lester and Jeff— _Jeffster_ —perform (was that the right word?) another song. Casey knew it—by some 80's supergroup, Asia, or something. "Heat of the Moment." Casey had to admit it; he was surprised. They had snuck into the party and somehow gotten their minimal gear into place and started playing before anyone had really paid any attention to them. And they weren't bad. They weren't good, either. They weren't Neil Diamond. But they were acceptable.

So Walker and Bartowski— _Bartowski_ and Bartowski—had done it. Ran off to Vegas and not only got married but managed somehow to have a kid. It seemed crazy and perfect all at the same time. It made Casey happy. At least those two had found each other and had the good sense to try to keep each other.

He had hoped Kathleen would be at the party. He had been a coward at the reading-in, not even looking at her. He was about to light his cigar when he saw her coming across the courtyard. She was in a little black dress that showed that the figure of the girl he had proposed to was still present. Her legs were long and her dress short. She made every part of him react. She knew she had; she smirked at him and glanced at him sidelong as she went into the apartment.

Casey put the cigar away. No need for it. He was already smoking.

* * *

Ellie was watching _Jeffster_ with a bemused expression. Devon walked up behind her and put his arms around her waist. She tilted her head to one side and he took his cue and kissed her neck. She wanted to turn around and kiss him passionately but was not eager to do that where Lester and Jeff might see. It was clear she already played a disturbing role in their fantasy lives. No need to throw gas on that dumpster fire.

Devon whispered in her ear. "You know they want to play here at our reception?"

"Never. Not. Ever."

Devon laughed—and then started singing along, just to tease her. _It was the heat of the moment telling me what your heart meant._

* * *

Chuck walked through the apartment and out into the courtyard. He shook his head and chuckled as _Jeffster_ wound their way into ZZ Tops "She's Got Legs". Chuck noticed that Casey seemed strangely affected by the song. He wouldn't have pegged Casey as a ZZ Top kind of guy. Ellie and Devon were listening to the song in an embrace, Devon grinning and Ellie frowning. Morgan and Alex were slow dancing to the song somehow, swaying to a rhythm only the two of them could hear.

Sarah had, although it seemed impossible, gotten Molly to go to sleep amid the din. She walked into the courtyard and took his hand. Beckman was inside on the couch, sitting with Roan Montgomery. Sarah had been excited to meet him. He was a legendary agent. Casey, on the other hand, seemed to work hard to keep Roan from noticing him. Chuck would have to figure out what that was about. Roan seemed sort of familiar to Chuck—but he couldn't quite place him.

Casey also seemed to be trying to be where Carina was not. Carina, for her part, seemed glad to be at the party, but Sarah had told Chuck about what was going on and he felt for her. She had spent a lot of her time chatting with Beckman and Roan. Chuck introduced her to Stephen and Ellie, and she talked with them for a long time about Bryce.

Chuck and Sarah made their announcement and had it had been met with joyous shock by those who did not know. For a time, the whole party was a merry-go-round of hugs, handshakes, and well-wishes. Everyone knew now. Ellie was so happy she had forgiven them for doing it as they had done it, especially when they promised her they would do it again—and everyone would get to be involved. Stephen's look darkened for a moment when Chuck made the announcement, but the darkness passed and he congratulated them both enthusiastically.

Chuck paused to take stock. He had married Sarah Walker, the world's most mysterious woman. From his point of view, the deepest of her mysteries was that she chose him. But she had. He knew she had. That knowledge was enough. Enough for anything.

 _Jeffster_ launched into a-ha's "Take on Me".

Chuck turned to Sarah, nodding his head in the direction of Morgan and Alex who continued to sway. "Those two seem to think every song is a song for a slow dance. What do you say: will you take me on, Mrs. Bartowski? Slow dance to this with me?"

She laughed, shrugging. "It's no better to be safe than sorry, Mr. Bartowski." She opened her arms.


	52. Chapter 51: Auld Lang Gone?

A/N1 Cue Rockapella. Morning, Gumshoes! Welcome to the Acme Detective Agency…Oh, wait, sorry. This is not a TV show; this is real life. Still, it would be cool to be called The Chief.

Anyway, onward. Thanks again and again, gentle readers, for reading and responding.

Don't Own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 51 Auld Lang Gone?

* * *

 _But a clergyman goes by_

 _With a placard_

 _"You can still win."_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 30_

* * *

In Castle early the next morning, Stephen and Ellie were talking with Chuck and Sarah about the message from Mary.

Chuck had been told Beckman had approved Stephen and Ellie using Castle for research purposes—and that a team yesterday had moved all the sensitive material and Stephen's computer and so on from Ellie's lab at the hospital to Castle. It turned out that Beckman had also managed quietly to get Ellie a leave of absence from the hospital.

Ellie was for now on the NSA's payroll. Stephen seemed mildly pissed about that but said nothing open about it.

Chuck had tried to return the money his dad had sent him. He had used almost none of it. He had hidden it all this time inside the CPU of an old computer repair in the Chuck Pen. He knew no one would touch it. No one had. One thing was sure: the mad work-avoidance skills of the other Nerd Herders. Chuck had banked on it.

Interestingly, Stephen seemed not to be in need of funds. He had refused to let Chuck return the money. He told Chuck and Sarah to keep it as a wedding gift. Chuck shrugged and handed the envelope to Sarah. She looked at him with a question in her eyes but, when he nodded, she slipped the envelope into her purse.

When Chuck and Sarah arrived, Stephen had come to them with the message. The CIA cryptologists had worked on it continuously since Beckman sent it to them, but they had no suggestions—except that, as Stephen suspected all along—it was a riddle, not a code.

They had been brainstorming for a while but nothing had come of it.

Mary's message was on one of the monitors. They were all staring at it in frustrated silence. Chuck finally made a joke about having a crush on Carmen back in the day. Sarah, also joking, but with an audible hint of jealousy, asked: "I guess she was a brunette?" Chuck nodded.

He grabbed his computer. "You mean you've never seen her, Sarah?" She shook her head. Chuck typed for a minute then shifted his computer display to the monitor. The cartoon figure of Carmen Sandiego stared at them alluringly from under her red hat.

Sarah did a double take. "No, I have never seen Carmen Sandiego. But I have seen _her._ "

* * *

Leader was trying not to listen to the water. It caused Frost to stir. Leader was trying to find Frost in his head, but it was like playing tag with his shadow: she moved as he moved. He couldn't capture her without capturing himself. Leader thought again of the Questing Beast—always behind Pellinor no matter where Pellinor was. Maddening. Goddamn maddening. Leader did not normally curse, but today he felt accursed, so he would curse if he wanted to. Damn it.

In another day or two Leader's cell would be restored. Leader was ready to let loose his fury, building day after day in the dark, building in time with the lapping waves. Maybe he could not kill Frost after all. But he could kill people she cared about. That might be just as good. Maybe better. She had been terribly weak for months after Leader severed Orion's finger. Only a little longer in the dark…

* * *

Kathleen opened one eye. She was not entirely sure where she was. The eye she had opened revealed a set of plain curtains hanging closed over a sun-filled window. The walls of the room were bare. Except for one small, rectangular photo in an inexpensive frame. A photograph of…Ronald Regan. Kathleen sighed.

Oh, no.

She closed the one eye. She opened the other, slowly, slowly. Next to her, bare-shouldered, slept Alexander…John. She then realized that his bare shoulders matched her…almost all-over bareness.

Oh, no.

The last thing she remembered was finishing her third—or was it her fourth drink?—and she had seen Casey drinking in a corner of the courtyard. He was staring at her with his eyes on fire. She had decided it might be a good idea to dance a bit, all by herself, in her new dress, right there, where John could see her, watch her.

At some point, she remembered them both having more drinks and dancing wound around each other tighter than strands of a rope. The last thing she could recall was John yelling for _Jeffster_ to play that ZZ Top song…again. She had shut him up by kissing him. They had stumbled into his apartment.

Oh, no.

And now she was in his bed denying herself stereoscopic vision. Not that monoscopic vision was keeping her from seeing enough. She gave up and opened both eyes.

Casey was looking at her, sheepishly. She smiled at him. She couldn't help herself. His eyes began to burn again as they had last night. But he pushed himself up from the bed and stood. He had his shirt off, but he still had on his pants, his belt, and his socks. She noticed that her dress was hanging neatly on a hanger from the knob of Casey's closet.

"Sorry, Kath, I meant to sleep on the couch. But after I got you undressed and _immediately_ under the covers, I guess I gave up the ghost, passed out. I swear I didn't touch you—at least not that I remember…" He dropped his head.

Kathleen got tickled. He looked absurd standing there half dressed, his heavy arms and thick chest and his clear fear of her and her reaction. She moved under the covers, making him uncomfortable because he could not keep his eyes from wandering over her as she moved. She wanted him. Her arousal was so complete and so sudden her body shook slightly. He moved toward the door.

"Marine, are you really going to retreat before you have secured your mission objectives?"

She grinned at him and she knew the grin was hungry. He was unsure what to do.

"Mission objective?"

"Reacquiring the love of your life."

"Reacquiring the love of my life?"

"Ok. Assisting me to reacquire the love of my life."

"Assisting?"

"Oh, just surrender, Marine."

Casey undid his belt and allowed his pants to fall to the floor, revealing white boxers.

"I surrender."

Oh, yes.

* * *

Sarah turned the computer Chuck was using toward her. She spent a few minutes typing and waiting. Then she displayed a photo on the monitor alongside Carmen Sandiego. No one spoke. Stephen made a puzzled sound.

On the monitor was the picture of an unidentified Fulcrum agent. The one Sarah had used to confirm that Jill was a Fulcrum agent. In the photo, Jill had on a red dress and a hat. A red hat. She had on glasses, but she otherwise looked for all the world like Carmen Sandiego. Sarah was immediately certain. Jill was Mary's Carmen Sandiego.

"God, I really hate her, " Ellie said.

Sarah growled low and leonine. "Get in line, Ellie."

* * *

Carina was carrying a bag of pastries and a cardboard tray with a coffee and a Rooibos tea. Bryce smiled when he saw her come in. She pushed his wheeled table over to him without saying anything. She put the pastries down on napkins and sat his coffee in front of him. She took the top off her tea and breathed it in. She picked up her pastry and bit into it, not caring that crumbs fell onto her blouse and into her lap. Bryce sipped his coffee and sighed in contentment. They ate in silence.

When the pastries were finished, Carina pushed the table away and pulled her chair closer to the bed.

"Good morning, Bryce. I have to say, you look better than any morning I've seen you. What's happened?"

"Hope. Chuck's dad and his sister are working on my problem. I have tremendous respect for them both. If anyone can help me, it's them. I also think that Jill is clearing my system a little. I don't know that I will ever shake her completely; I've had feelings for her for a long time. But knowing what she is, what she's done, what she's done to me. Well, as I feel better I also feel less…mixed up with her than I did."

"Good. 'Cause, forgive me for saying it, but your undying passion, she is a colossal bitch, and I know colossal bitches, having been one for many years myself." Carina smiled and Bryce laughed. "You're many things, Carina, but a colossal bitch isn't one of them."

Carina reached over to the table and grabbed an unused napkin. She reached out and dusted some crumbs off Bryce's blanket. He looked at her, his brows knitting slightly. She blushed and threw the napkin away. After a moment of silence: "I talked to Stephen and Ellie. They do seem hopeful, Bryce. Say, it's a nice day. Are you up for a little walk to the garden?"

* * *

Chuck looked at Carmen Sandiego and Jill Roberts on the screen. Chuck knew of himself—most of the time he knew it—that his boy was never deeply hidden in his man. Books, movies, TV, comic books: these things he had never lost his taste for, and did not anticipate losing his taste for, ever. But this: this was the boy meeting the man in the strangest way. Of course, Chuck knew that Jill was not _really_ Carmen Sandiego (and he wanted nothing to do with Jill ever again)—but, still, for a few seconds, it seemed like they had somehow captured the ever-elusive Carmen, the red-coated, red-hatted, flashing-eyed vixen of his early fantasy life…

Sarah was now watching Chuck look at the screen, not looking at the screen. He heard her growl a second time—and he recognized that her growl had changed targets. He steadied his gawking expression and looked at her, turning only his eyes.

"Uh, sorry, it's not Jill—it's Carmen."

Sarah laughed, but her laugh had teeth. "Because that makes it better?"

"So I guess I shouldn't sing the theme song, you know, Rockapella?"

"Only if you plan to continue your singing career as a first soprano in the Vienna Boys' Choir."

"Ok. No singing. You know, between that comment and the threat you made against the Fulcrum agents, I am beginning to _shrink up_ a bit."

"Chuck, you know I was just trying to get those men to talk. I was never going to make them Wienerlicious donors."

"And me? That castrati remark just now. That was just a joke too, right?"

"Right…" Sarah said airily while winking at him unreadably.

* * *

Stephen began to speak, his tone speculative, his eyes on the monitor.

"I get it. _Red_. Mary—Leader—must have seen Jill like this or seen her like this on a screen. Even with the saturation down, her outfit would have been clear enough red to stir Mary, even if Leader was in control. She remembered Jill in this outfit. She must have known the photo existed too. No, more likely, at some point she put the photo into the system. Somehow, she did this. She knew who Roberts was and knew she was tied to you, Chuck."

"Still, Dad, it was a long shot."

"Not as long as you might think. She knew we had Jill. Knew we could get to her. Knew that Beckman's team has been filling out the file on Roberts. But she also knew you. She thought you might have seen Jill dressed this way or seen the photo. She did not know that your wife," Stephen made himself smile as he said that word, "would have such a good mind for details. Anyway, the two of you figured it out, I'm sure of it."

"Yeah, Dad. But the bad news is that Jill's gone. Transferred to a supermax prison awaiting trial. It would have been nice to have gotten the clue and figured it out sooner."

Sarah had her phone out. "General, Diane, this is Sarah Bartowski. We need to talk to Jill Roberts." Sarah explained the situation briefly. "How soon can you get us in there? Okay. Yes, we will be here for a while longer but we want to be home to have lunch with Emma and Molly."

"She can get us in—but no earlier than tomorrow, probably."

"So, I get to go talk to Jill…" Chuck lack of enthusiasm showed.

"No, Chuck, _we_ do. I'd enjoy a chat with Jill, I think."

"Ok. But Mom's note also says that Jill doesn't know she knows. So she's not keeping a secret, I guess. She just has one but doesn't realize it. How are we going to figure this out?"

"We'll play it by ear, Chuck."

* * *

Bryce was enjoying the warm sunlight. Carina was telling him a diverting story about an old mission of hers. Bryce had never had a woman friend before. In the past, a bed, real or imaginary, had always been part of the furniture in an encounter with a woman in whom he had any interest. Carina, he found, interested him—but there was no bed. That did not mean he did not find her attractive. A corpse would find her attractive. No, it was that he could see her and not just feel his attraction to her. In fact, his attraction was not normally part of his experience of her, of time with her. There was just Carina. Funny, smart, surprisingly complicated, Carina.

Bryce closed his eyes, content to let the sun warm him and to bathe in the sound of her voice.

* * *

Beckman made some calls. She could get Chuck and Sarah in the prison first thing in the morning. She finished getting ready. Roan had left town, but he promised to be back if she stayed. She knew she was needed in DC, but she felt like things with Leader and Fulcrum were coming to a head. In her mind, she heard Chuck laugh at the inadvertent pun on 'head': that man could weasel his way into your head. Beckman shook her head. She would stay until tomorrow and then figure out what to do. Right now, she was going to go to Castle.

* * *

Later, while Beckman talked with Stephen and Chuck, Sarah noticed Ellie drift away from the conversation and eventually sit down at the central table on her own. Sarah went to sit beside her.

"What's wrong, Ellie?" She spoke in a low voice.

"The wedding. It's in a few days and with all this going on and hanging over our heads, I just wonder if I should cancel it…"

"But you want to get married, right…" Not really a question, just a prompt, from Sarah.

"I do, Sarah, I do. So does Devon. We are ready. So ready. I want to start a family. I want to be a wife."

"I understand."

Ellie looked directly at Sarah. "You know, Sarah, although just a few weeks ago I would have wondered at those words coming from you, I know you do."

Ellie's eyes focused on a distant part of Castle.

"Why does everyone think that a woman who wants to get married wants to be June _damn_ Cleaver? That the woman is choosing to be subordinate or submissive or second in some absolute sense?

"For me, it means finding someone who I put first because I trust him to put me first—and because he puts me first for the same reason. A husband and a wife are _each_ second-among-equals. At least, that is what Devon and I want. That kind of marriage. The strictest type of perpetual friendship. Real partners."

"I get it, Ellie. I want the same thing. I have the same thing with your brother.

"Look, it is possible that all that is going on will interfere with the wedding. I can't lie about that and you know it anyway. But we are Bartowskis," they glanced at each other and both broke into huge smiles, "and _family comes first_. Keep the date. We'll do our best to work around it. Maybe we won't be able to lean into the wedding as much as we want. But I tell you what, Ellie—if that happens, then why don't you and Devon do it again when Chuck and I do? A double second ceremony?"

Ellie squealed—and squeezed Sarah within an inch of her life.

* * *

AN2 I know: From Elizabeth Gaskell and Henry Green references to Carmen Sandiego references. Whiplash. Let's call it…stroboscopic. Yeah, yeah, that makes it sound better…stroboscopic.

AN3 Technical: atcDave has pointed out something I noticed but hadn't worried about. For some reason, the site keeps missing update dates, often showing that the last time I updated was, say, a couple of days ago when, as a matter of fact, two chapters have posted since that update. Just wanted to mention this, in case some of you have missed chapters because you have been looking at the update date.


	53. Chapter 52: Knowing Me, Knowing You

A/N Everyone sing: you know the ABBA song…

Thanks for sticking with me. We are closing in on the end. Let me hear from you a few times before we part company.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 52 Knowing Me, Knowing You

* * *

 _An electric goat's head_

 _Turns and smiles_

 _Turns and smiles_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 30_

* * *

Kathleen was sitting at her breakfast counter with Alex. She took a moment and thought about yesterday before telling Alex about it.

Casey had taken the day off and they had spent it together.

The time they spent in bed had been wonderful—completely new and present in memory too. Kathleen had been so overcome by it that she had wept in John's arms when it was over. When it was over the first time. She had not wept later.

But it had been awkward between them when they got out of bed. There was still a divide between them, a gulf opened and fixed in place by John's betrayal. And as wonderful as it was to be with him, to be close to him again, it would take time for forgiveness and forgetfulness to do their work and close that gulf. She had to forgive him. He had to forgive himself. Their orientation needed to be on the future, not the past.

* * *

Alex listened as her mom started the edited-for-TV version of the story. She was largely unsurprised. She was overjoyed for her mom, but Alex had known what was going to happen when her mom showed up at the party wearing that dress.

She was concerned only that her mom allow her mind to catch up with her heart. Her heart had been yoked to John forever. Alex now understood better the glum, rainy Saturdays she and her mom had sometimes spent together at home over the years, her mom sitting by the door and staring out at the front yard as if she were waiting for someone—or wished she were.

* * *

Speaking of waiting, it was Morgan's day off. He was supposed to stop by and have an early lunch with Alex and her mom. After that, she and Morgan were going back to the martial arts studio. If Morgan was going to insist on watching all those Bruce Lee films, he ought to at least learn how to actually do some of what he was seeing. They two of them were supposed to have dinner with Morgan's mom. It would be Alex's first time meeting her. She was a little nervous but mostly excited. She expected it to go well.

* * *

Clunk.

Not clank or click. Clunk.

Chuck guessed the difference must be the supermaximum-ness of Jill's new jail. There were no bars, just heavy, thick metal doors, almost like the doors of a bank vault.

Sarah walked ahead of him. She was dressed in black, all black. Black top, black jeans, tall black boots, black military-style watch. She looked like she was going to a funeral. Or an ass-kicking. Both.

The burly guard—a woman—led them deeper into the prison. She finally halted in front of one of the heavy doors. Cell 007. Chuck failed to suppress laughter. The guard stared him into silence. _Score one for Bryce_.

The guard made a call on the mic she kept otherwise clipped to the epaulet on her shoulder.

The door clicked open. The irony of going to visit Jill behind a door like the one he'd been behind in the warehouse struck Chuck. He was glad for the cell number and the irony. The thought of Jill living out her life in a place like this made him sad, despite his justifiable anger at her.

He had once thought he would spend his life with her or hoped he would. He had been duped. But that didn't change the fact that he had once felt that way. Chuck tried to keep the sadness from showing. But as the guard pulled the door open, he saw Sarah see it. She was not angry with him. She smiled at him, a small brief smile that she kept only for him and only let him see. Her secret _My Chuck_ smile. They went in.

Jill was seated on a low cot. There was little else in the cell except for the expected open lavatory. Chuck had blackened one of her eyes when he hit her before, and the bruising was now a mottled purple-yellow. Jill had a book in her hands—a big book. _The Anatomy of Melancholy._ Chuck glanced at it when she closed it and then glanced at her.

"A gift from General Beckman. It was in the cell when I got here. I have no idea if it was a kind or an unkind gesture. I really can't make much of it. I guess melancholy is better than nothing. The book is supposed to lift melancholy by reflecting on melancholy." She was quiet for a minute, looking around her cell like she had just noticed it for the first time.

"So…Chuck." Jill met his gaze. Jill turned and visually assayed Sarah, taking in the black garb. "Walker."

" _Bartowski_."

Jill's mouth formed an 'O'. She twisted her head toward Chuck. He just looked at her. "I thought you two just got _engaged_."

Sarah strode to Chuck and took his hand in hers, smiling into his smile. "It was a short engagement, Jill. I couldn't wait. He's _mine_ now and I am _his_."

Jill's leaning crest fell. Her shoulders sagged. Eventually, she raised her head.

"I can't imagine you are here to ask for my congratulations, so why _are_ you here?"

It was clear that Jill had gotten angry as she traversed that question. Her body spoke a new language by its end—her shoulders stiffened, her cheeks flushed.

"I have _nothing_ to say to you two. Leave. Or did you come here," she spoke to Sarah, "to gloat?"

"Maybe a little, Jill. After all, the last time we _spoke_ ," Sarah inflected that word noticeably, "you spent your time explaining to me that Chuck was _yours_. I wanted to make sure you understood how empty your boasts were."

Chuck broke in. "Jill, do you think you are safe from Leader, even in here?"

"No, I know I am not. I was probably safer in your holding cell, probably a lot safer there. Leader does not usually allow high-ranking agents to live until trial."

"I thought not. Look, we think we can stop Leader, actually capture him. If we do, that'd make you safe, safer anyway. It's a long story, and one I am not going to tell, but do you remember ever wearing a red dress with a matching red hat?"

Jill's face was puzzled. "Sure. I often wear that outfit when I travel; it is a favorite of mine. Why?"

Sarah: "Did Leader ever see you in it, with his own eyes?"

"No, I have never seen Leader with my own eyes or he me with his."

"But he would have seen a video of you in it."

"Yes, many times. Vincent Smith, the bastard, used to call me Carmen Sandiego. He got a lot of the men doing it."

Sarah shot Chuck a quick, almost unnoticeable glance. He nodded.

"Do you know where Leader is, Jill?"

"Rumors are that he is in California—but I don't have any idea where. For all I know, that weird cell he is rumored to be in could be on a submarine or a space station—you know, like in that Bond film…what was it?"

" _Moonraker,_ " Chuck offered.

"Yes, that one. With the toothy guy, Jaws. Say, wasn't he in another of those movies?"

Sarah answered. " _The Spy Who Loved Me_."

Chuck and Jill both looked at her. While they both looked at her in surprise, their looks were otherwise totally opposed, Jill annoyed and Chuck touched. When Jill looked away, Sarah gave Chuck the same small smile she gave him when they entered the cell.

"In your interactions with Leader, Jill," Chuck asked, "do you recall ever talking about specific locations, locations that might have been Leader's location?'

Jill appeared honestly to consider the question and honestly to answer it. "No."

Chuck had been afraid of this, afraid that whatever Mary took Jill to know was so distant from Jill that it could not be recalled.

"Is there any place you often went to get orders from Leader? Was there even a particular town?"

"No. Usually, Leader contacted me on a laptop I had been given."

And then Chuck had a thought, a good one: "Is there any place you often went between missions, a place you spent time?" Chuck believed he knew the answer.

"Yes, my house I the beach. I told you about it, Chuck."

"You did. I just remembered. How did you come to get that place, Jill?"

"I mentioned once to Leader, after money for a mission was transferred into my account, that I would soon have enough for my dream home. He asked about it. A few weeks later, I got a call from a realtor about it. I remember that Leader asked me later, after I bought it, if I liked it. It is up on a cliff, above the water."

"Tell us the address, Jill." She did.

Chuck noted the address in his head, as did Sarah. He turned to Jill again, his sadness evident. "I'm sorry you are in here, Jill. I wish you had made different choices."

Jill's eyes filled with tears. "I do too, Chuck. But I have been thinking. I'm not saying this to hurt your feelings or to get to gloat myself, but the truth is, Chuck, despite what I told myself from time to time and my fantasies about us being together: I wanted you, I wanted you to be mine…" Jill glanced quickly toward Sarah, "but I never wanted to be yours. I wish I had. Maybe things would have turned out very differently for us, for me."

Sarah squeezed Chuck's hand. He was stuck, unable to respond or move.

"Maybe they would have, Jill," Sarah spoke with no rancor and no taunt: echoing the fact itself was enough.

They left Jill behind them.

Clunk.

* * *

Back on the road, Sarah glanced nervously at Chuck. She could feel his sadness, his melancholy. She felt some of her own, she had to admit. "Are you ok, Chuck?"

"I will be. What a waste, Sarah…Jill wasted herself. I wasted all that time on her and then on the memory of her. How did I fail to see her for who she was, who she admitted she is?"

Sarah gazed at him kindly. In Jill's cell, it had struck Sarah just how close her life had been in ways to Jill's and how near Sarah had come to missing out on Chuck and what he had given her.

"Chuck, you are the most generous-minded person I have met. Part of that generous-mindedness, a part that I don't think can go away, is that you think other people are generous-minded too."

She stopped for a moment.

"You read your guilelessness into their characters. That can be a good thing for some people; it makes you gentle and patient with them, allows you to shelter them so that they can grow and allows you to endure their growing pains…"

Sarah's voice quivered.

"You habitually see things from other people's perspectives. You never forget that other people are people, with minds and feelings of their own, right or wrong. But sometimes you have a hard time imagining how ungenerous other people can be, how little concerned that other people are people.

"When we went on our first cover dates, I sometimes feared you were being…mean to me. You kept attributing _your_ way of looking at other people _to_ me. I thought you knew that I was not like you, not generous-minded. I thought that you were being ironic, satirizing me, my coldness and suspicion."

Sarah drove on in silence for a little while. Chuck was silent too. She knew he knew she had not finished.

"I figured out pretty fast that you were not doing that. You really believed that I saw the world the way you did. Your belief that I did made me believe _I could_ —and I began to try.

"Sometimes you were so gentle you almost broke me. I never told you this.

"It was like you knew how wrong I was about everything and were determined to make me _see_ how wrong I was about everything. That wasn't what you were doing, though. You were just being gentle with me, sweet to me…loving me. But sometimes, I experienced that love as torment…. "

Her voice and her hands on the steering wheel were tremulous. She took a deep breath and felt steadier.

"Chuck, Jill is Jill. Even you can't reach everyone.

Pause.

"Or, anyway, not all at once." Sarah laughed softly at herself.

Pause.

"You were never cold and suspicious, Sarah."

She rolled her eyes at Chuck but she kept laughing. " _Ice Queen,_ remember."

"You were never the Ice Queen, Sarah. You just believed that you were and fooled everyone else into believing it too. I never believed it."

Sarah sighed, a sigh long and affectionate and warm. "QED, sweetie, QED."

* * *

"I know this address helps us, how does this address help us, exactly? Are we supposed to go there and find something that will allow us to figure out where Leader is?"

"No, Chuck. That is where Leader is."

"What?"

"Jill was just talking but her comment about Leader being in a submarine or a space station was right in a way, I think. Leader is afraid of the light of day, of natural light, of color. It allows your mom to fight him. Leader arranged for Jill to buy that place.

"Leader is bunkered somewhere inside the cliff the house sits on. Jill is only there, when she is, between missions, when Leader knows she will be there. The rest of the time the house sits empty.

"My guess is that the house commands a healthy slice of private beach. Leader gets supplied by water, and likely arrived by water. I also guess there is not a huge number of guards. Enough. Enough to take care of Leader and to make him feel safe. Lots of traps, likely.

"When your mom told Stephen that Carmen knew and didn't know, she didn't mean she had forgotten, she meant that Jill knew the place under one description, _Home_ , but not under Leader's description, _Head Quarters_."

Chuck laughed, one chuckle. "Head Quarters. That would be funny if it weren't Mom."

Sarah reached over and held his hand.

* * *

Beckman was in Castle. She had spent the night there, trying to catch up on DC paperwork and other obligations.

She got off the phone with Chuck. She had the address and Chuck had explained Sarah's hunch. Beckman called and ordered a satellite into position. That was going to take a while. Beckman ordered surveillance drones to go over the house once darkness fell. They should know whether Sarah was right by tomorrow or the next day.

Beckman had just sat down when her phone rang, scaring her slightly. It was still in her hand.

"Roan?"

"Not tonight? Well, I am going to be in town at least a few more days. Soon? Ok, I will hope to see you then."

She ended the call and sighed. She should never have mentioned the future. Roan bolted like a colt any time she did that. She had hoped it wasn't what happened this time, but given his flimsy excuse for leaving and his hemming and hawing about when he might be back, it seemed that he had. She knew him. Damn.

The man was not a colt—he was long in the tooth, as the saying went—as was she. There was precious little future to put off or run from. Maybe, if he came back to town, she could finally get him to acknowledge that.

She knew she was in a bad spot. To get Roan to do what she hoped, she would have to convince him that he was not as young as he wanted to believe.

Disillusioning someone you love, even for love's sake, was no pleasant task. She closed her eyes and sank into the chair, feeling her own years.

* * *

Stephen was resting on a cot in one of the holding cells of Castle. He had finished up the preliminary program for Bryce, implementing several of Ellie's suggestions. They would try it on him tomorrow.

Stephen was reflecting on Mary.

When they met, she had been so beautiful that he could hardly look at her. She had been his handler and then she was his lover. It had not happened overnight; it took time. Her being his handler blended imperceptibly into her being his lover.

But did she really ever love him? They had fought about this occasionally during their marriage. Stephen would be fine for weeks, months. And then she would do something that reminded him that she was Frost.

Frost had been his handler. Mary was his wife. Anytime he was reminded of Frost, he went into a tailspin, spiraled. He could not convince himself that if Mary loved him, then Frost loved him.

He knew that had to seem as evident as: _if Clark Kent loved Lois Lane, then Superman loved Lois Lane_. Taken one way, there was no denying it. Superman and Clark Kent were the same person. So too Frost and Mary.

But _were_ Frost and Mary the same person? Mary loved Stephen. Did Frost? Why couldn't he accept the obvious answer?

Was Agent Walker the same person as Sarah Bartowski? Sarah loved Chuck. Did Agent Walker? Stephen wanted to believe it for his son's sake. He was trying to believe. Maybe he did believe it.

 _Maybe_ he did.

* * *

Leader was concentrating. In the dark, Frost continued to stir. She seemed determined. He could tell—faintly, ever so faintly—that she was anticipating something or hoping for something. Frost had stopped anticipating and hoping a long time ago. Leader thought she had. Now those feelings were back and they seemed to crawl along the inwards of Leader's chest like hot-coal spiders.

Leader knew Frost. Something new was happening. Something had changed—or was about to change. At least Frost thought so. She was wrong.

Let her anticipate. Let her hope. When Leader made ash of it all and salted the earth, her anticipation and hope would make the pain sear ever deeper. She would never recover. _Tomorrow_. It would begin tomorrow.

Thinking about it, Leader turned and smiled. Turned and smiled.


	54. Chapter 53: Reft

A/N Leader is ready. Are we? Is Leader really ready?

Thanks for reading and responding. Talk to me, gentle readers. Our time together nears its end. Remember, other than the thrill of creation, my only profits are your responses.

Don't own Chuck. No money made.

* * *

CHAPTER 53 Reft

* * *

 _Batman, the hero of hell, plots the ruin of New York._

 _Thomas Merton, Cable to the Ace 46_

* * *

Sarah knocked gently on Emma's door. It was early, barely light.

"Mom?" Sarah kept her voice down. She could hear Molly making giggling and gurgling noises; she was awake. Sarah's spy senses had been on high alert the last couple of days. She had heard Molly across the hallway.

There was no answer, so she opened the door quietly. Emma was still asleep. Molly was holding herself up on the edge of the crib, making noises to herself. When she saw Sarah, she smiled and put out her arms. She started to wobble. Sarah crossed the intervening space in a flash and had her in her arms before she fell back on the bed.

"Gotcha, little girl. Balance still not quite mastered, huh? I'm really good at that kind of thing. As you get older, I will help you. We'll both take classes with my friend, Alex."

Sarah saw Emma wake up and turn over.

"Stay in bed, Mom. I've got her."

Sarah took Molly into the kitchen. They had bought a high chair for Molly to eat in on the drive back from the visit to Jill. Sarah put Molly in the chair and gathered up some food. She gave Molly some finger foods and began to warm cereal.

Chuck walked in, yawning. Sometimes Sarah forgot just how tall he was, how truly lanky. When he stretched to yawn, his arms out and up, he practically filled the kitchen. Sarah felt herself react. Maybe she could act on that later. But now it was time for breakfast.

Chuck started the coffee. He leaned against the counter and watched Sarah spoon warm cereal into Molly's mouth as the coffee maker giggled and gurgled, an electronic imitation of Molly's earlier noises. It was lucky Sarah was such a good shot, as Molly's mouth was a rapidly moving, and rapidly opening and closing target.

"How are you doing, Sarah? So much change in so little time..."

"I'm ok, Chuck. My spy senses seem to be working overtime. I think it's that I have been so used to being under pressure, on a mission, monitoring everyone and especially myself, but now that I can…relax a bit, it's like I can't turn them off. They woke me up early."

"Sounds sort of like how things used to go for me when I would take some vacation days. I'd always spend the first few days still in work mode. It never seemed like I could relax, really begin to vacation, until the last few days of my vacation."

"That may be it. You are right; this is a big adjustment for me. But I really am ok—better than ok, even if I do feel like I'm sprinting to catch up with my own life. It's a life worth catching up with, Chuck."

"Sarah, I know I've never really asked you this explicitly, and I know I should have. We've touched on it here and there but never really hashed it out. I believe I know how you feel, but I don't want to make assumptions. I thought about asking in Vegas, but things went their own way there." He sighed and looked at his ring.

"…Let's suppose we find a way to end this, find a way to deal with the Fulcrum and the Intersect—are you going to be able to let the CIA go? Or are you going to want to remain an agent? What do you want? Do you know? I didn't ask in Vegas because I knew that I just want to be with you. And I will be with you whatever you choose. Normal is overrated. _Real is what matters_. Making you happy is what makes me happy."

"I was done with the CIA when I kissed you in front of what we thought was a bomb, Chuck. Oddly enough, it was Carina who convinced me of that." Chuck's look was dubious: _Carina?_

Sarah nodded and continued. "I'm only still in the CIA because of you and your family, because of the Intersect. If we find a way to end this, I resign. End of story. I've already written the letter; it's in the desk there if you want to see it. I just haven't put a date on it yet. I'm looking forward to doing that. I should have told you—but I believed you would be happy with it. I am."

Chuck grinned at her and walked out of the kitchen. He went the door and grabbed his bag, hanging on the coat rack by the door. He dug out a manila folder and handed it to her. Inside was a small stack of papers, paper-clipped together. On the front of the first was this:

 _Virtual/Reality Investigations_

Security and Cybersecurity

The lettering of the logo was reminiscent of Chuck's _Tron_ poster. She scanned the pages. It was the beginning of a business plan for a combined detective and cybersecurity agency. She and Chuck would run the business together.

"You'd be in charge of the detective side—and of any bad guy-ery we run into on the cyber side. I'll be in charge of the cyber side—and of any electronics or computers or communications you need on the detective side. We could put the Piranha and Agent Walker to use. I want to ask Casey to join us. We won't do any sleazy stuff, divorces, cheaters, you know. We will pick and choose. I think we'll be _that_ good."

Sarah looked up from the papers. She gazed with admiration at Chuck.

"Well, baby, what do you think? We could be like Alfred Hitchcock's Three Investigators?"

She grabbed Chuck and pulled him into a massive hug, pressing her body against the entire length of him, all she could reach.

"You saw those books and remembered? The other little girls made fun of me for loving them, but I did. I like this plan, Chuck."

* * *

Stephen had Bryce sitting up in the hospital bed. Ellie was there too. They wheeled Bryce's table over and put a laptop on it. Ellie had attached various electrodes and other devices to Bryce. Stephen was typing on the computer. After a moment, Ellie nodded at Stephen. Stephen turned to Bryce, turning the computer toward Bryce too.

"Bryce, I am sure that what was done to you was done in stages. The basic program was done when you were in Fulcrum's charge, as you recovered from your wounds. When they realized you did not have the Intersect, they—forgive the phrase—turned you into a Trojan Horse of sorts. They were going to use you one way or the other, and use Jill to complete the programming and control you.

"I suspect you were Fulcrum's first 'live' attempt to create an unwitting double agent. They got incredibly lucky, got their wish when Graham chose to use you to lead the Intersect team. But they had to wait until the stages of the programming were completed. Jill had not counted on your…feelings for her and the way they ended up complicating her control of you.

"I mention this because I don't want you to expect _too much_ today. If what Ellie and I have done works, you will feel a change. It may be hard to describe: say, you will feel like you are more in control of your conscious focus, not so easily…distracted. If it works, then we will repeat the procedure every day until you feel normal again. At that point, we will run some more tests and determine if we are truly finished."

Bryce nodded, his eyes hopeful. "Sounds good. Thanks, you two."

Ellie went and turned off the light. Stephen adjusted the computer in front of Bryce once more and then 'Enter' and stepped back. Colors played across Bryce's' face for a while, his eyes moving rapidly back and forth or up and down. The colors stopped and Bryce's eyes rolled back in his head. He slumped down.

That did not panic Stephen. Ellie too took it in stride. They had expected it. Ellie clicked the light back on and Stephen closed the laptop. They stood together expectantly beside the bed. After a minute or two, Bryce spasmed. He did it again. Then he opened his eyes. He looked at Stephen and Ellie. Ellie leaned toward him and looked closely into his eyes. She then told him to close them for a minute or two. She went and looked at the monitors she had attached to Bryce before the test. She seemed satisfied.

"How do you feel, Bryce?"

It took Bryce a minute to answer. He had looked around his room and at Ellie and at his own hands.

"Clearer. Like some of the fog has lifted. I think it worked—working, anyway." Bryce smiled a large, happy smile—but with none of his old brashness.

Stephen smiled. "Very good, very, very good. Just rest for a while. We consult with you again in a little while. Is Carina coming?"

"Yes." Ellie turned to Stephen. "What do you think?"

"I think we took the first step to curing Bryce and the first step to curing your mother."

Ellie suppressed her squeal in deference to patients but did nothing to lessen the violence of the hug she gave her dad.

"We'll know more soon. Let's leave him alone until Carina gets here."

* * *

Carina showed up a little while later. Stephen and Ellie met her.

"We want you to go in and talk to him. It doesn't matter what, really, but it would be best if you could make it about something emotional.

"We will be watching and listening but he won't know it. There is in the room, not normally on, but it is now. We aren't trying to fool him; we just want to see his unvarnished reactions when he is not trying to gild them to please himself or us. He's still hooked to the machines. We will get readings from them after you've talked. We aren't trying to pry into his secrets, we just need to know about his reactions."

Carina nodded her understanding. Stephen and Ellie went into the room next door.

They sat down in front of a monitor that showed Bryce in his room.

"Hey, Bryce, how are you?"

Carina asked the question as she cruised into the room.

Bryce was quick to smile. "Good. Better now. You look terrific. But it's been a good day so far. Stephen and Ellie—you've met them?" Carina said she had. "They did the first stage of the deprogramming or reprogramming or whatever it is. I think it helped. I haven't been drifting as much before, at least not so far…"

"That's such good news, big boy!"

He looked concerned. "How about you? How are you?"

Carina glanced nervously around the room. If she wasn't careful, Bryce would tell her secret without knowing he had done so.

"Uh, I'm fine, Bryce. Let's not talk about me. Has the programming or whatever had any effect your feelings…for Jill?"

Bryce frowned. He had not expected that topic to come up. Carina had been willing to talk about it when he mentioned it, but she had not really initiated talk about Jill. Bryce decided to roll with it.

"I can't tell about that. But, as I've said, I don't think my feelings for Jill were exactly part of the programming. Maybe the Fulcrum programming affected them in some way, but I know it didn't create them. The feelings predated the programming.

"…But I will say that mentioning her…just now, as we have…has not caused me to drift out, or get confused, or foggy, or whatever it used to do to me. I can say her name without knotting up mentally. That seems like progress.

"But how about you? Have you made a decision yet? Are you going to keep...?"

"Bryce!" Carina said it more sharply than she wanted to. "Let's not talk about me, not right now."

Bryce looked hurt but nodded his head. Carina felt a rush of annoyance with herself. He hadn't done anything wrong.

She extracted herself from the conversation on the pretext of getting some Bryce some coffee and herself some herbal tea.

After she left Bryce's room, she stopped to talk to Stephen and Ellie. Stephen seemed wholly engrossed in the readings and in notes he was taking. Ellie glanced up at Carina and then took her by the elbow.

"I could use some coffee."

* * *

As they walked down the grey, shiny hallway, Ellie leaned closer to Carina. "I know we don't know each other well, Carina, but we share a friend, Sarah. Does she know?"

"Know what?"

"That you are pregnant?"

"How did you know?" A shadow crossed Carina's face. _Damn_. Gave herself away. Some undercover agent she was.

"Doctor, remember?" Ellie said, pointing at herself.

"Does your dad know?"

"God, no. For all his gifts, he's oblivious to this sort of thing. He's in that room, thinking in numbers and equations—all about Bryce. Your secret is safe with me."

Carina decided immediately that she liked this Bartowski woman. Direct. No bullshit. Maybe they could be friends? If Sarah liked her, and she knew Sarah did, Carina was willing to bet she would.

They got to the hospital coffee shop and stood in line, talking about Sarah and Chuck and—more quietly, once they were seated—about the early stages of pregnancy and the rigors of planning a wedding. They grabbed a coffee for Bryce before they left the shop and headed back to his room.

* * *

Chuck and Sarah left Castle, heading to see Bryce, Ellie, and Stephen at the hospital.

The afternoon had been frustrating. The satellite that they hoped to use to gather some intel on Jill's house had not gotten its cameras refocused in time. They would have to wait for another satellite to get into position. The drones made two passes, but their intel was ambiguous. It seemed like there was evidence consistent with Sarah's hunch, but nothing conclusive.

Beckman and Sarah had worked on those problems, with Chuck checking in occasionally. He was working on his own problem, trying to take the work his dad had done for Bryce and to project it forward into something that might help him get the Intersect out of his head. So far, he had not made much progress. He had some ideas—but he needed Stephen and Ellie to bounce them off of.

He also took a few minutes to work more on the business plan he showed Sarah. He was so excited about it that he was having a hard time not giving it his full attention. But there were things that needed to happen before that plan would be something they could pursue.

* * *

At one point, when he had the plan out, Beckman walked up behind him. He'd been so engrossed he missed her approach. She looked over his shoulder at it. She walked away, a complicated, thoughtful look in her eyes.

* * *

When they arrived, Bryce, tired of being the center of attention, had asked for some time himself, time to nap. Stephen, Ellie, and Carina were seated in the waiting room, talking about Bryce's condition. They brought Chuck and Sarah up to speed.

Stephen wanted to get back to Ellie's apartment. He was tired, he said, and tomorrow the wedding press was due to start. Devon's parents were supposed to arrive. He wanted to get some rest before he had to meet his daughter's in-laws-to-be. Ellie grinned at that. Sarah was missing Molly and already had presumed on Emma's good graces enough; she wanted to get home too.

Chuck wanted to talk to Bryce. Casey had just arrived. He could take Chuck and Ellie home. Sarah offered Stephen a ride.

* * *

The atmosphere in the Porsche thickened almost as soon as they got in it, reminiscent of the trip to Boulder City, if a little less physically crowded. Sarah was frustrated from the day and the lack of results, and when she saw Stephen glance at her; he may have meant nothing by it but it pissed her off.

"Stephen, I have tried to be patient. God knows I have tried to be patient. I know you are struggling with suspicions about me, " Sarah wheeled the car out into traffic, "but I have given you no reason to treat me like you have. No reason for the little looks and reactions and comments. Stop it. Now."

"But Sarah...your past."

"Did you actually look at it, consider it? Did you see that I have not been an agent-seductress, that I have not been willing to take on such missions? Why would that have changed suddenly with your son?

"I'm not denying that I have done things I am not proud of, things that wake me in a sickly sweat still. But I have confessed those things, the ones that have taken the greatest toll on me anyway, the ones that symbolized all the rest, to Chuck. _He knows_. I made _sure_ he knew. You know I did this. You heard us talk about one of the letters I sent him.

"What would I really stand to gain from having done all that I have done? What more do I have now that I am his wife and we have Molly, that I couldn't have gotten just by seducing him? Why would I do all this? I will not ask these questions again. You either answer them, or you stop this."

Stephen turned and stared out the passenger window.

"Sarah, I keep redirecting my doubts about Mary onto you. I suspect that you know that.

"Doubt is corrosive. I've carried it around so long that it has eaten through me. It's eaten at everything. At some level, I know that my problem is not with you. But its like I'm on a psychological fireman's pole. I doubt Mary and then I slide down to doubting you."

"Stephen, if you can't get your doubts under control, you are going to end up alienating your son, maybe forever. We have fought for each other, Chuck and I, fought to be together. He wants you—I want you—to be happy for us.

"But your place in his life right now is fragile. I want it to be stronger. He wants his dad. It won't get stronger if you keep acting like the loud freshman guy (it's always a _guy_ , I remember Harvard) in the Intro to Philosophy class who keeps intoning as if he's deep, 'But you can't _prove_ the lectern is real!'

"But, look, Stephen, like that freshman guy needs to hear, _sometimes your head tells you one thing while your whole life tells you another_. Your whole life is going to win and it should. Are you going nurse some paper doubt at the cost of being a real father to your son?"

Pause. Sarah waited. Pause.

Stephen put up his hands, turned to her. He smiled at her— _genuinely smiled at her._ For once, his eyes were undarkened with disbelief. "Ok, ok, Mrs. Bartwoski. Daughter. I yield." He leaned over. He kissed her cheek. She blushed.

Sarah returned Stephen's smile. She felt like this was the moment when things changed. She felt buoyantly happy.

They were close to home.

She looked up at the van stopped ahead of her. She stopped behind it, waiting for it to turn.

Suddenly: the glass of the driver's window shattered.

Sarah turned in time to see a hand with a tranq gun. She heard it fire.

She heard the glass on the other side shatter and heard a second _ppfftt_ sound of another tranq gun.

She was able to turn and look in the rearview mirror. A black van was behind her, one that matched the black van stopped ahead of her.

Her final thought as she lost consciousness was that her spy sense had stopped working overtime.

* * *

Chuck and Casey stood beside the abandoned Porsche, glass still on the street and in the seats. Casey had been talking to the policeman who found the car. The policeman had asked around the neighborhood. No one had seen anything.

Chuck kept chanting to himself internally: "There's no blood. There's no blood. No sign of injury."

He thought of Molly. He thought of Emma and Ellie and Devon. What would he say to them? Beckman wanted him back at Castle _asap_. He would have to call them from the car. It was almost dark.

He prayed Sarah's hunch was right. He prayed he knew where Leader was. Because if he did, he knew where his wife and his father were too.

 _Please mom, please,_ battle _Leader. Keep them safe until I can get there_.

He climbed into the Crown Vic with Casey, slammed the door, and they sped toward Castle.


	55. Chapter 54: Till We Have Faces

A/N1 Leader: from a TV screen to your living room. Yikes!

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 54 Till We Have Faces

* * *

 _A perishing computer blazes down into a figure of fire and steam. We live under the reign of stainless leaders…Gone is another technical spy in giant and instant heat._

 _Thomas Merton, Cable to the Ace 85_

* * *

Sarah tided toward consciousness like a languorous wave lapping a beach: in and out again, in and out again, never quite conscious, never quite unconscious—but each time the _in_ of consciousness lasted a little longer, and the _out again_ of unconsciousness lasted a little less long.

And then without warning: she was conscious. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious. The tranquilizer had been very strong; it had affected her internal clock.

She was no longer in her own clothes. She was wearing a black shapeless dress—a shift. She could tell she had her undergarments on underneath it, but her feet were bare. Her hands were very tightly bound behind her. Her ankles were bound together even more tightly. She was sitting on the floor, leaning up against a wall. She looked around her.

She was in a small, cubicle room, largely black and white. There was a door with a slot. It looked heavy and it was shut. Computers and computers lined the walls. There were multiple monitors, most turned off. A couple of monitors were on—but their displays were strangely colorless, washed out. If Sarah forced herself, she could have named the colors, but they were as close to achromatic as chromatic colors could be.

The lights in the room were the cruelest fluorescent lights, leeching the color from Sarah's hands and feet, everything. It was as though she saw herself and the room on a black and white TV.

Stephen was on the floor near her but he was still unconscious. He was in a black t-shirt and black pants, barefoot and bound as she was.

About fifteen feet from Sarah, sat Mary Bartowski. She was seated in a metal desk chair, seated beside a large flat desk covered in papers and with a large keyboard. Her chair was turned toward Sarah and Stephen.

Mary's hair had obviously been self-cut with scissors and with no thought but utility. It stuck up around her head in various lengths, all short. Tufts of it on the sides of her head stood up, resembling horns. She was rail thin, a hunger artist. But she was not weak. Her thin arms showed muscles, lean and long. She was dressed entirely in white. A white t-shirt and white pants. She wore short, white boots.

On her face was a pair of sunglasses like those of a blind man or a welder. The lenses of the sunglasses were so dark and thick that they were practically opaque. It was unclear how much Mary could see through them if she could see anything at all. The glasses had leather edges, making them look more like goggles when she turned her head—as she was currently doing. Turning her head and smiling. Turning her head and smiling. Leader.

She was smiling. The smile looked caused by an electric shock, not by any internal emotional state.

Sarah did not offer any comment. She stared into the black lenses, at reflections in them.

Finally, Mary spoke, that is, Leader spoke. "Sarah Walker. How nice to meet you."

Leader's smile barely moved as he spoke. "I am Leader."

Leader's voice was a woman's voice, but strangely low and harsh.

"No, you are not. You are Mary Bartowski." Sarah offered it as a challenge.

Mary jerked in her chair. "I am Leader. There is no Mary Bartowski. Mary Bartowski is a…fiction."

"No, she is the mother of two children, the wife of a husband. She must miss her family terribly. They miss her terribly. They would like to see her, to welcome her home, to give her back her life."

"A fiction…cannot have a life."

"That is sensible. But you, Leader, _you_ are the fiction. You have no life."

"I am _alive_. I have a life. My life is here." Mary struck her chest with her fist. Then she gestured around her jerkily: "And here."

"There is no Mary Bartowski. There is only Leader…and Frost. But Frost will soon be gone."

Sarah stopped. She had not expected this turn. Frost, not Mary?

"Frost is…here." Not Leader's voice.

Leader's voice: "No, Frost is…asleep."

Another voice, cool, dispassionate, very aware: "Frost is not asleep. I am awake."

The smile on Mary's face became more natural, but non-committal, illegible.

Sarah was unsure what was going on. She had expected two—but three? Was it three? Two and a half? One plus _some_? Hell.

Frost was Mary's code name. Her name as a…CIA agent. Frost was Agent Walker to Mary's Sarah. Sarah was not Intersect-savvy like Stephen or Chuck or Ellie, but she knew something about deep self-division.

Maybe, if nothing else, Sarah could keep Mary talking for a while. Sarah was unsure how long she had been unconscious, but she was reasonably sure she had been out a while. Her internal clock told her it was late morning. Chuck would come for her. She just had to stay alive and keep Stephen alive until the Team arrived.

"Hello, Frost. It is nice to meet, agent to agent."

Mary's facial features seemed like they were being remotely controlled. Leader's smile, then Frost's smile, then Leader's. Her face was a battlefield.

Finally, Frost spoke. "Good to meet…you, Agent Walker." Strain worked her voice. Then her voice steadied, sharpened. "Why are you with my _husband_?" Was that jealousy?

Sarah did not know what Leader knew, did not know how much said to Frost could be heard by Leader. But this was, ultimately, Mary Bartowski, and no matter how many persons seemed to be inside her—she seemed as crowded as Sarah's Porsche on the way to Boulder City—this was a woman who was responsible for two children who took family _seriously_. That had to have something to do with her. Sarah decided the risk was worth it.

"I am with _your_ husband, but he is my _father-in-law_." Even in those circumstances, the feeling of being part of a family, this family, warmed Sarah. "I am Chuck's wife."

Mary's body went stiff in the chair, then jerked, then stiffened, then jerked. After a moment, Mary repositioned herself in the chair.

When she spoke, the voice was intelligent, strong, warm. Her smile was wholly natural and legible, a trace of happiness across her worn, ravaged face.

"You married my Chuck?" Sarah's eyed welled with sudden, heavy tears when she heard Mary Bartowski say 'my Chuck' and say it so gently. "Chuck married an _agent?_ I always told Stephen," Mary looked gently at his unconscious body but could not seem to move toward him, "that our family story would end up reading like a bad scriptwriter wrote it…Charles has a _wife_ …"

"And a daughter—we, uh, adopted, her name is Molly. I think you'd be crazy about her."

"A grandchild? I am a grandmother? How wonderful! I feel old enough, I am sorry to say…" Her voice faded. Frost's voice returned. "Look, enough of the touchy-feely stuff, how do we get you out of here, Agent Walker?"

Leader's voice: "You don't. I tire of this carnival sideshow. I wanted Orion. I wanted to kill him in front of Frost. Orion first. And then Agent Walker. It seems that Frost will get a double bill. 'Double bill': a nice pun, that." Leader smiled that ghastly smile—a skull grinning in at the feast. "An atrocity exhibition."

Leader laughed, a sound Sarah prayed she never heard again. It sounded like Mary had swallowed some tiny, tinny transistor radio and that the laugh was issuing from it and echoing up and out of her throat. Sarah gagged reflexively.

"You see, my plan is simplicity itself. I will kill everyone Frost cares about in front of her, one by one. Stephen, you, Ellie, Chuck—you see, I now remember the names. The floodgates have opened; the firewalls are down. I am beginning to see clearly. Oh, and _Molly_ , a name I had not forgotten and a bonus for the end. Call Chuck and then Molly _the grand finale_."

All at once, Sarah burnt with white-hot rage and she was chilled by a bleak frustration. She struggled violently against her bonds, but the zip ties only bit deeply into her skin, causing blood to flow freely from her wrist and ankles. Eventually, the rage and frustration played themselves out, leaving her bleeding and sweating on the floor.

Leader started that sickening laugh again, but it got shut down: "No, no, you make-believe, pixelated bastard, you will do nothing of the sort: you will harm no child, you will harm no one else. I will kill you, kill _us_ , before you do. The floodgates are open; the firewalls are down. I can do it now. You see, unlike you, I am not a coward. I am willing to die if it means you die too." Frost.

Sarah forced calm on herself. "Mary, Ellie was supposed to get married today. She's in love with a wonderful man, a doctor, like her. His name is Devon. Chuck calls him 'Captain Awesome'."

"Wait, Chuck calls Ellie's fiancé 'Captain Awesome'?" Mary. She giggled into her hand. "That's funny. And I can imagine him. I know Ellie. I used to anyway. Good for her. Although I am guessing all this may delay the wedding?" Mary sounded disappointed, apologetic.

"Probably. But you know Ellie, she's made of stern stuff—yours and Stephen's—this won't knock her down for long. Besides, I think she certainly would have happily delayed it if delaying it meant that you would be able to attend."

Mary's face brightened. Then Frost shifted topics. "Are you CIA, Sarah? NSA?"

"CIA."

"For a long time?"

"A decade. A little more."

"Do you want to keep doing it?"

"No. I am…hoping to quit soon."

"I should have quit." Mary now, looking pensive, sad. For the moment, inexplicably, she seemed firmly in control.

"I couldn't let go of it, Sarah. I couldn't let go of Frost. I…needed her. She protected me. Stephen has always had doubts about me. I caused a lot of them. I loved…love…him, you see. So desperately it terrifies me. Do you know what I mean, Sarah? Do you know that kind of love?"

Sarah nodded, unable to find her voice.

"And almost any time things got _real_ , I became Frost. After our engagement…after our wedding…" Sarah saw Mary's face working under old but raw regret, "…when Ellie was born, Chuck…I became Frost. I loved him. I was so excited by those things, but they also scared me so much. So I became Frost.

"And at the moments when I most needed to be available to my husband, open and true, I became unavailable, closed and false. I was more comfortable with appearances than realities. I know it hurt him deeply. I should have quit the CIA. But I wanted the escape route, wanted to be able to escape it if it all became too real.

"I went after Hartley because it had all gotten too real. Ellie was nearly a teenager and I had no idea how to relate to her—she had become a little black cloud in a dress and I did not know what to do. Couldn't talk to her. Did not speak or understand _Teenager_ even if the words were all English _._

 _"_ Chuck was so bright, so open; he loved me with such a sunny, tender, uncomplicated love, it broke my heart.

"Stephen was buried alive in the Intersect and overburdened with guilt about Hartley. I did not know how to make Stephen better.

"I wanted to help Hartley—I really did, but I also wanted to escape all that, Ellie, Chuck, Stephen. So I did. I took the mission and I broke my husband's heart and ended up adding nightmarishly to his guilt.

"I suppose some of it is his fault…a little of it. Stephen's a good man. But he's a digital man trapped in an analog world: a reverse _Tron._ He has emotions but he often does not understand them: 1's and 0's, yes; X's and O's, no. Emotions don't compute without remainders. I fear that may be the reason why the Intersect went so wrong…

"….But I knew this about him, I even loved it about him, and I became Frost anyway…What was I doing…?"

Sarah realized that Mary's control was caused by what she was saying. This—confession—had been inside her for so long that once it started, Leader could not prevent it from avalanching to its conclusion.

"I have been Frost whenever I have had to face Leader. That is why he does not call me Mary. I put on that mask so many times it now seems welded to my face. There is no Frost. I know that. I have always known that. There is really just me, Mary—and this goddamn program in my head. I am and am not Frost, because ultimately Frost is my mask, a persona and not a person. I am her when I wear the mask, but that does not mean she is not a mask.

"But I have leaned on Frost again, that is the face of mine that Leader knows. I don't know that Leader knows that I have opposed him—a fiction—with a fiction of my own. Mask-of-a-living-woman to mask-of-a-code-monster."

She rolled her chair closer. "Has Chuck seen your face, Sarah, your true face? Can you put your Agent Walker mask down and recognize it as a mask, nothing more? Can you be a real wife to my son, a real mother to your daughter…Have you seen your own face?" The questions were softly asked, as introspective as they were turned toward Sarah.

Mary leaned down toward Sarah as she asked the last question. Sarah saw her reflection in the dark glasses: her drawn face, the fear in her eyes, the worry.

She saw Sarah Bartowski. She saw her own face.

But she also knew the presence of her competencies, her gifts—the things that allowed her to don her Agent Walker mask. She would wear it again, and save herself and Stephen—and Mary, if she could.

But she could and would take it off. She knew it was a mask. A thing that Sarah Bartowski could use, but not a thing she was. _I am and am not you_.

Mary smiled—smiled wrong. Leader had returned.

Sarah noticed that Stephen was conscious. She did not know when that happened; she had been so engrossed in Mary's speech.

Leader rolled the chair back and stood. He picked up a knife that had been hidden from Sarah's view behind a pile of papers on the desk. She walked toward Sarah. She stopped. She had just noticed that Stephen was conscious.

"Welcome, Orion. I wanted you to be awake before I gutted Agent Walker. It will do Frost good to watch you watch that."

Mary walked nearer Sarah as she spoke, but she was careful to remain just beyond the range of Sarah's legs. Sarah was not sure she could manage much, but she might be able to knock Mary down, maybe somehow get the knife from her.

Leader looked back at Sarah. "Always thinking, aren't you, Agent. You remind me of Jill Roberts, except you are better. Better control. Colder. More deadly. Roberts, at the end of the day, was best at making herself horizontal. You excel at making others horizontal."

"Lord," Sarah whined, putting extra whine in her whine, "do you ever shut up? Jill Roberts did not deserve you. Maybe you need to get out once in a while. Find a therapy group. You know: 'Hello, I'm Leader, and I'm an asshole…' You might make a friend."

Leader stepped a little closer. Behind the lenses, Sarah could just make out the anger in Mary's eyes. Good. Maybe she would make a mistake.

Stephen spoke for the first time. His voice was choked.

"Mary, sweetheart. Leader is not real. You are. Fight him. Fight him for me and for us. For Sarah. Fight him for our family. Please, Mary."

Mary jerked. Her face slipped out of Leader's horrid smile. For a moment, it was unclear what was happening. And then Frost: "Stephen, stay back and stay out of this. I don't know if I can stop Leader. Maybe Agent Walker can. Maybe not. But if Leader turns to you, I know you cannot stop him. We have to play the odds."

Stephen had tears coursing down his cheeks. "Goddamn it, Mary. Goddamn it." He said these words in one long whisper. "I can't deal with Frost. Don't be Frost."

Mary answered him after a moment. "Frost loves Stephen Bartowski. You know that, don't you, Stephen? She has loved you exactly as long and exactly as much as I have. She will always love you exactly as I love you. She is me; she is mine…

"I have missed you so much. It hurts, Stephen, and when I hurt, I am Frost."

Leader: "Isn't this a touching reunion. Just the two of us, but the gang's all here…" Mary was looking at Stephen.

Sarah took her chance. She twisted herself hard, leaning forward suddenly, and keeping her hands close to her back. She rolled as fast as she could across the space between herself and Mary, crashing into Mary's legs. She had seen Sarah coming at the last moment, but could not avoid contact.

Mary slammed to the floor. Her knife landed and skittered away. At that moment, the lights went out.

Mary was used to the dark. She was able to scramble to her feet. Sarah could not see to react.

The lights came back on, but lower. An emergency generator must have powered them.

Mary was standing again. She was looking for her knife but had not found it. Then she saw it. Sarah could not get to it before her. Her attack was going to have been wasted.

But then Mary froze. Something held her back. Frost.

Frost's arm went up, her hand clutched a hypodermic. It must have been stowed somewhere in the room and Frost had grabbed it. Sarah had not seen her grab it. Maybe she did it when the lights were out. But she must have gotten good at hiding actions from Leader, from everyone.

Frost spoke in absolute, clinical detachment. "No, Leader, you will harm no one else. Die." She plunged the hypodermic into her thigh.

Leader's voice: "No! You don't dare! You cannot win without losing."

Frost: "I am willing to lose as long as you do too, you son of a bitch."

Leader was weaving. The psychological strain was too much. It was acting on her before whatever Mary had injected into herself.

Mary's face contorted almost unimaginably, a mask of agony barely human. She slumped and leaned against the desk. Her hands went to the keyboard.

Leader: "And I am willing to lose as long as you do too, you bitch. All of us will die!" Leader punched a button violently. Mary collasped hard on the floor.

Sarah foresaw what was coming. A red light began to flash. A feminine computerized voice announced calmly: "Hydra Network self-destruct sequence initialized. Four minutes until self-destruct."

Sarah rolled to the desk. Leader's knife was on the ground. She lay down on top of it, supine, and grabbed it. She sat forward and used it to cut the bonds on her wrist and her feet. Then she crawled quickly to Stephen and freed him.

He jumped up and ran to Mary.

"No, no, Mary! I did this. It is my fault."

Sarah went to the computer. She had no idea where to begin. She punched some keys. Nothing.

The timer: 3:00

"Stephen, here." Sarah took the knife and cut off a section of the bottom of the shift she was in.

"Tie this tight around the thigh she injected. It might slow some of whatever that was. Poison, I'm guessing." It was the only suggestion Sarah had.

Stephen's answering look was wild and uncomprehending, forlorn. He turned back to Mary, ignoring the instructions.

Sarah did it herself, pulling the fabric as tight as she could as she finished.

"Stephen, you have to stop the self-destruct or help me stop it."

He now had Mary in his arms, rocking her and rocking himself. Saying her name again and again in the flashing red light, a counterpoint to the computerized voice informing them repeatedly of what they already knew.

Sarah ran to the door. It was locked. She could not see any mechanism for opening it.

3:15

The flashing red lights had started to seem to Sarah like they were in her head, tinting her thoughts themselves. She was full of alarm. They had to get out!

3:00

She heard voices—or thought she did. Voices other than Stephen's. He was muttering, "Mary, Mary, Mary…"

She listened at the slot in the door. She heard no more voices.

2:45

She frantically pushed her arms through the slot, scraping the skin of her forearms raw. But she could not get her arms far enough through the slot to get her elbows out so that she could try to reach something, anything that might open the door. She pulled her arms back in; her forearms burned.

2:30

She did hear voices. Were they the voices of Leader's men? She couldn't tell. Then she heard shots. Yells. Silence.

2:15

Still silence. The Team must have come to rescue her. They hadn't made it. Chuck hadn't made it. Hadn't. Made. It. _Chuck_!

Sarah went and knelt beside Stephen. She put her arm around his shoulders. Mary was still breathing. It probably didn't matter.

They had been so close to home.

2:00


	56. Chapter 55: Faith or Pandemonium

A/N This chapter is preludial to and then contemporaneous with the previous one. Thanks for reading and responding.

Chapter title is a phrase lifted from Bing Crosby's "Accentuate the Positive".

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 55 …Faith or Pandemonium…

* * *

 _They all set sail together for the fall of towers._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 88_

* * *

Chuck watched and listened as Casey cut the outboard engine on the small Zodiac. They were now floating in the dark. He could make out the eyes of the others: Carina, Ellie, and Cheryl. They were all dressed in black, wearing body armor.

Everyone but Ellie had a weapon, although Chuck's was a tranq gun. Ellie had a doctor's bag, stuffed with various items normally in such a bag, but also with other things she had grabbed in Castle's tiny infirmary. They would be on the beach in a few minutes. Chuck had a backpack with a laptop and with an extra phone and other gadgets he had chosen.

Chuck grabbed an oar, as did Casey, and they starting rowing as silently as they could while still making progress toward the beach. The night was not moonless, but the moon was a sliver of its full self.

It would be hard to see them coming. Hearing them coming was going to be more of a worry.

* * *

The day since Sarah and his dad had been taken was the longest of Chuck's life—and given his recent days, that was saying something. But while those days had been diversified with events good and bad, this day was one long taffy-pull of his nerves. He was frantic. But he had to contain it.

He thought about Sarah and her long wait while Jill had him in the warehouse. He knew that long wait from the inside now. But he also thought about how Sarah could channel her energies, focus. He tried to imitate her.

* * *

In the Crown Vic with Casey, immediately after finding out about the abduction, he called Emma. She took the information stoically, as he had expected. She would take care of Molly. He called Ellie. She too responded well. She was desperately frightened but she found the reserves to cope. She was going to call Devon's parents and tell them not to come. Cancel the wedding. She would tell them, truthfully, that there was a family emergency. Family came first.

* * *

When they arrived at Castle, Beckman was working. She was pushing for data from the satellite and drones. She had plans of Jill's house, but they showed no obvious connection to the bunker Sarah suspected was under the house. Carina was looking at the plans with Beckman. Chuck was surprised to see her there.

"Chuck. Good. " Beckman turned toward him, as did Carina. "Are you holding up ok?" Chuck nodded grimly.

"I know. I am frightened for them too. But remember that we are not facing an ordinary villain. This villain is part wife and mother. We know Mary was able to keep Leader from killing Stephen in the past, and that she has caused Leader to bungle and misunderstand, to make mistakes. Leader could have had them killed in the street but didn't. I am going to trust that Mary is strong enough to hang on.

"I know—and you know—that Sarah is strong enough to hang on. She will not let anything happen to your father if she can prevent it."

"I know, but that somehow scares me more, not less. She'll die before she lets anyone hurt him." Chuck shuddered but hid it.

"That's true, Chuck, I won't deny it. Sarah is as deeply, as fiercely protective as anyone I have ever met. But she is also very, very _hard_ to kill. If I were Leader, I would be sure I do not make the mistake of facing her alone."

Carina nodded her decided agreement.

Chuck heard footsteps on the stairs. Casey had parked the car and was coming in. Right behind him was Ellie. She must have left the apartment moments after Chuck called her. She had a doctor's bag in her hand.

"Ellie? You can't…"

"Hush, Chuck. She is your wife and she is my sister. He's our dad. You cannot keep me out of this. Hi, Carina."

"Hey, Ellie. Sorry to see you again under these circumstances."

"I am glad to see you, even under these circumstances. How did you find out?"

"The General knew I would want to be part of this."

Slight puzzlement showed on Ellie's face, but she erased it quickly. Chuck realized that Ellie knew Carina's secret.

Casey had gone immediately to the armory. He would make sure that any weapons they might need would be ready.

* * *

They hurried—and waited. Chuck paced so much that he began to drive everyone else crazy, so he went to one of the holding cells. He paced there. The night passed, the hours sandpaper rubbing grittily against his tightening fear.

Sarah had done so much for him, changed him so much. They had come so far. To get this far and to have it taken from them would be a cruelty. But he knew the world was full of such cruelties—he knew that every day, every minute, someone's dearest hopes were crushed by some fiat of fate. No one was exempt. No one was immune. Cold rain fell on the just and the unjust.

* * *

A little after dawn, the first of the drone data came in, less ambiguous than before. There definitely seemed to be activity on the beach. The beach was secluded by rock formations reaching down into the water on either end, each almost the same distance from the house up above. While the rock formations were by no means impassible, they acted as a natural barrier to walkers or runners or even against those mildly curious.

The photos seemed to show a door built into the cliff face, but one chosen and positioned so as to be difficult to see. It was. The photos were suggestive but not conclusive.

A few hours later, more drone data. Yes, there was a door. And there was a pathway. Sand had been swept onto it to obscure it, but from the air, at the right angle, it could be seen. It ran from the door to the beach.

Finally, satellite photos came in and they confirmed Sarah's suspicion. There were mines along the beach. They were buried beneath the sand but the satellite photos revealed a pattern of bumps and depression clearly man-made. Similar mine patterns used by Fulcrum were in the Intersect and Chuck flashed on them. The mines Fulcrum typically used could be switched on and off. Chuck began work on a transmitter that would duplicate the signal. It gave him something to do.

The final hours passed. They were taken by a launch to a small Navy ship that would get them near the shore and wait for them to return. Chuck and Beckman had talked about a full-scale landing team but had decided against it.

Chuck thought it unlikely that there were many Fulcrum agents in the bunker. Leader thought it was top secret, unknown. No attack was suspected. Leader's secretive nature, particularly about himself, would be a strong reason to keep few guards around. Beckman was not eager for anyone else to know about the Intersect, and given the players—the Bartowskis—it seemed hard to imagine being able to keep that secret from anyone who accompanied them. The Team would be Chuck and Casey and Cheryl.

But then Ellie had demanded to go, pointing out that she would be useful both for medical and Intersect reasons. Chuck wanted to refuse her. But he knew she had a right to be there if she wanted. He did extract a promise that she would bring up the rear. And, it turned out, Carina demanded to go too—and promised she would stay back and keep Ellie safe. Both Chuck and Ellie shot her a questioning look.

"I know. It's a risk. We all have…things to lose here. But she's my best friend and you two are my new friends. I even like Casey, although if you tell him, I will call you liars to your face."

Chuck turned to Ellie. "Sis, you were supposed to be married today. Are you sure you are ok?" Ellie flushed and spoke flatly.

"I'm ok as long as Devon is, and he completely understands this. Chuck, this was a no-brainer and you know it. The life of almost everyone we hold dear is in the balance. Devon and I will get married once this is over." Her tone had grown angry.

"I know, Ellie, and I didn't mean to imply that you were selfish. I just know it would be natural to be disappointed anyway. I once hoped for a Reno wedding that got…cancelled, sort of, by the woman I love. I was kinda disappointed as I recall…"

Ellie's demeanor softened. She smiled at her brother. "Kinda. Sorry, Chuck. Yes, I am… _kinda disappointed_. But I can bear it. Let's make the cancellation worth it. Let's make sure both our cancellations lead to happy endings on top of happy endings."

Chuck smiled back at her, wishing he felt the amount of faith she pretended to feel.

* * *

Casey had his phone out in one of the cells. He was talking to Kathleen. He had called Alex, but had just treated it as a "Hi, How Are You?" call. He wanted to hear her voice. But he told Kathleen exactly what was going on. She had once expected to be—had been willing to be—a Marine's wife. He hoped she was still up to this difficult sort of duty: waiting while knowing the danger he was in. Kathleen was clearly frightened. She was also moved; she was very happy he had called her and shared the danger (and although he had not said it and never would) the fear with her. She told him she would be thinking of him. She also told him she had plans for his body that required it to be living and whole when he returned.

"I will do my best, Kathleen. I know this sounds bass-ackwards, but I am happy I have…someone to lose. Do you understand?"

Kathleen said nothing for a few beats. Then: "I love you too, John. I can't help it and I won't deny it, even if there are still…difficulties. But the difficulties are not about my feelings. I know how I feel. They are about us coming to terms with your past, my past—with the past. Come home, John. We're coming to terms with it. We're getting somewhere _together_."

* * *

When they landed on the beach, Chuck and Casey jumped into the water and pulled the boat far enough ashore to be confident it would not drift away. The women leaped from the boat onto the sand. They stood in a small group. They had about twenty feet of clearance before the first staggered row of mines. The only sound was that of lapping waves.

Chuck pulled his transmitter from his pocket and pushed the button. He had no way of knowing it had worked. He knew his specs were right. But Fulcrum could have changed mines or altered these.

He did not and had not explained that to Casey. Chuck had to find out.

So, he walked, bent low, directly into the minefield. After he had gotten a fair distance inside it, he turned and, still bent low, walked horizontally along the beach for a little while. He was not dead in a fiery explosion. The transmitter had worked. Casey walked up to him.

"You had no way of knowing that worked, did you?" Casey's whisper was a soft growl in the dark.

Chuck said nothing. Casey added nothing.

Casey turned and called back softly, and Cheryl caught up with them. Carina and Ellie came too, but lagging behind, as agreed. Everyone but Ellie now had a pistol out.

* * *

Carina walked behind Ellie, her senses on alert. She thought for a second of Bryce. She wanted to spend more time with him. He was her…friend, her _guy_ …friend. Maybe he could be more. Maybe. He was… _nice_ to her. And she was letting him be nice to her. So far, so…nice.

* * *

They halted on the far side of the minefield. They were still far enough away from the entrance, the door, that there was no reason to worry about the sound of their steps. Casey unshouldered the rifle he was carrying. It had a silencer on it. He turned on the night scope and looked at the door. There were two men standing there. Each had an automatic rifle on his shoulder and a pistol holstered at his side.

At this distance, the individual shots were not tricky for him. The tricky part was moving from the first target to the second quickly enough to fire before the second could react, without moving so quickly that your aim suffered. Casey had solved such practical problems before.

He took a minute and sighted the men, swinging the gun from target to target, creating a trace of muscle memory. He took his time before the first shot. He pulled the trigger and had moved the rifle to the second man without taking the time to check the result of the first shot. He trusted himself. He squeezed the second shot off as soon as the target was centered in the crosshairs. He swung the rifle back to the first man and saw him lying in a heap on the ground. He swung the rifle again to see the same result with the other man. He grunted at the results.

That'd do.

* * *

They moved cautiously toward the door. Neither guard had moved. There was no sign of any cameras trained on the door. Chuck got to the door and opened the plastic shield over the keypad. Using a small screwdriver, he pried the keypad open and quickly patched into the system. He grabbed a small, handheld device to from his bag and used it to generate the number. It took a few seconds, but it worked. The door unlocked.

Chuck nodded at Casey. Casey pulled the door open carefully. It opened into a long hallway, lit every twenty feet or so by a bare overhead light bulb. About four bulbs down, the hallway came to a 'T'; it ended in another hallway running at right angles to it.

Chuck put his hand on Casey's shoulder. He then reached into his bag and took out the last of the items he had with him, other than the laptop—a pair of goggles. They were sensitive to various lights. Sarah's hunch had been that Leader would have traps in the place. Chuck knew enough to take wife's hunches seriously.

Goggles on, he looked down the hallway. Twenty feet in there were sensors crossing the hallway at about a foot off the floor. There were more at shoulder height—at least for a person of normal height. They would hit Chuck in his chest. Chuck pushed the goggles up on his forehead.

He looked at Casey and the others explained what he saw in hushed tones. Chuck's hope had been that unlocking the door would disable the traps, but that hope seemed dashed. Unless there was a hidden switch on this side, this trap, at any rate, would have to be traversed.

Chuck slid the goggles back down and turned to Cheryl, Ellie, and Carina.

"I will have to talk each of you through the sensors. Take your time and listen to me. Remember, as you get farther from me, my angle on the sensors will increase and my ability to guide you will decrease. Try to get a feel for the pattern early. The sensors are placed at regular intervals. As long as you stay low, the top sensors should stay out of play. The trick will be lifting your legs up while remaining in a crouch. Casey will go first. Watch him." Everyone stowed weapons.

Casey approached the array of sensors slowly. Chuck got as close as he could and gave Casey the thumbs-up.

Casey lifted his leg. Chuck motioned for him to move it to the side, and then motioned for him to put it down. Casey, being Casey, ground his boot on the floor when he put it down, carefully making a mark, a guide to the others. He and Chuck worked like this across each of the sensors. It was a tedious, threatening task, a long crossing.

Chuck exhaled when Casey was through—and heard everyone else do so too. Cheryl went next. Casey's marks eased the task. She moved slowly and carefully under Chuck's guidance and then she was with Casey. Ellie proved to be good at the task, moving with great care but also with some speed through the trap. Carina, as might be expected, moved through it, having watched the others, almost as surely as if she had been wearing goggles. Chuck was wearing them, and although he had to bend himself into a pretzel shape, he too made it through.

"Chuck, couldn't we just have taken turns wearing the goggles?" Chuck grinned. "I thought of that, but then we would have had to try to toss them back to the next person. Given the distance, the goggles would have had to start too high or finish too low. And they are not aerodynamic." Carina nodded in understanding.

Everyone was standing huddled together, hoping to minimize the chance of setting off another trap.

Chuck looked down the remaining hallway but saw nothing.

* * *

Casey motioned for Chuck to take the lead again. This sort of think-and-slink puzzle was not Casey's thing: it was the too much like talking about delicate lady-feelings over, say, hot tea. Combat should be like watching Monday Night Football over beers. Clearly, Leader was strange. What a bizarre hideout for an international arms dealer and leader of a network of rogue spies! Casey felt for an out-of-body second like he was a teenager again, playing Dungeons and Dragons, inching through a dungeon coming into focus on graph paper…

* * *

Chuck moved ahead very cautiously, looking for seams in the floor or walls or ceiling, anything that might indicate a trap. He had gotten about halfway down the hall when he noticed a tight seam, almost invisible, in the floor. He noticed it just before he put his foot down on it. He tried to stop, but Casey, keeping close behind him, did not anticipate the sudden mid-step stop. He bumped Chuck just hard enough to force him to put his foot down.

The floor swung open underneath him, a yawning gap down into moving water deep below. Chuck started to tilt in head first, but Casey got hold of his belt and dug his feet in. For a moment, they both were in the balance. Then Cheryl, quick as a flash, grabbed the neck of Casey's armor vest. Cheryl was much lighter than Chuck and much, much lighter than Casey, but she was just enough to keep them both from plunging into the water. Casey, balanced again, pulled Chuck back.

Everyone took a deep breath.

* * *

The new problem was that the hallway now had a sizeable gap in it. Chuck thought he _might_ be able to leap across it, but he was almost certain no one else could do it.

Chuck forced himself to calm down and look more carefully at the trap and at the hallway around it. To the side of him, Chuck saw that a panel had slid back. He had not noticed it before. It had been cunningly hidden. It must have opened when the floor swung away. Its purpose was to reset the trap. Chuck motioned for everyone to stay still.

He pushed the reset button. There was a quiet whirring sound—an electric motor running somewhere beneath their fee—and the section of the floor came back up. Chuck held the button down and could hear the motor continuing to run. He held out his arm to Casey, who grabbed it, and Chuck, keeping the button pressed, pushed his foot on the floor, hard, then harder still. It stayed in place. He gestured for Cheryl to cross it. She did so safely. He kept the button pressed. He could hear the whirring increase in pitch. Carina and Ellie were across, then Casey too. Chuck took a long step onto the trap door and jumped as his hand came off the button. The whirring stopped and the floor opened again, but not before Chuck had gotten enough push to get across it. Barely.

Just as he landed, the lights went out.

* * *

They came back on a moment later, weak and flickering. Then an alarm sounded and red emergency lights began to flash and a computerized female voice politely informed them—"Hydra Network self-destruct sequence initialized. Four minutes until self-destruct."

Casey glanced at Chuck. "Shit, meet fan."

Chuck started to whisper at Cheryl, Carina, and Ellie—to tell them to run. But then he realized. There was no obvious way out. The water trap had them trapped.

* * *

Suddenly, pandemonium. Amidst the sounding alarm and the flashing lights, Chuck heard the sound of running footsteps and shouting voices coming down the hallway to the right.

The Team drew weapons. Carina pushed Ellie against the wall and stood in front of her. Casey went down on one knee. Chuck was standing right behind him. He could fire over Casey. Casey nodded and they both slipped their gun hands and heads around the corner. Cheryl was behind Chuck and could replace him if he had to reload.

They opened fire. There were three men coming down the hallway, yelling at each other, trying to figure out what was happening. They were carrying pistols.

3:00

Chuck hit one with a tranq dart. He fell. Casey hit one in the shoulder and he went down. The third got a shot off. He missed. He went into a crouch. Casey traded fire with the man. He hit him just as the man squeezed off one final shot.

The bullet ricocheted off the wall. Chuck heard Carina gasp behind him. He turned. Carina took her left hand off her right arm: her hand was covered in blood.

Casey got another shot off and the third man fell. Chuck yelled. "Carina is hit! Cover us."

2:30

Casey kept a watch on the three men in the hallway. None moved.

Ellie grabbed Carina and turned her gently toward the wall. Carina slid down into a seated position. Ellie grabbed her sleeve. She grabbed her bag and opened it. She took out a knife and cut Carina's sleeve off.

Ellie, panicky, yells: "She's bleeding a lot but it's a flesh wound. Hold her arm. Give me a minute." Chuck held Carina's arm.

Chuck looked at Carina and Ellie. Casey was still crouched looking down the hallway. Cheryl was standing behind him.

Chuck took off down the hallway to the left. He had to find Sarah or at least to be with her at the end. He heard Frodo in his head, speaking to Sam: "I am glad to be here with you…Here at the end of all things."

2:15

He saw the heavy door at the end of the hallway. It had a slot in it. He could hear his dad's voice muttering, "Mary, Mary, Mary…". A low liturgy of despair.

2:00

He punched the button by the door and heard it unlock. He pushed it open. There was Sarah, kneeling beside his dad, her arm around his shoulders. Her hands and feet were bloody.

His…mother…was on the floor, her leg bound with a black tourniquet. Sarah saw him and grabbed him. "Chuck!" She put her whole life and his into that utterance of his name.

He hugged her quickly then stepped to the computer keyboard on the desk. There had to be some kind of override, some way of stopping the self-destruct sequence. He punched keys. It was complicated. It would take time. He could solve it; he could figure it out if there was just enough time.

1:00


	57. Chapter 56: It's Lighter Than You Think

A/N This chapter plus one more will end the main story. There will be an _Epilogue_ —but I expect to take a few days off before I post that. I'm going to take a chance to reflect on the story before capping it off.

I got so caught up in the story I could not slow it down. The pace has not been for show. I've been a baffled witness to it. It is how I often work, though I don't pretend to understand it. I work in massive surges. I can't stop until I reach the end. The project takes over.

I thank everyone for reading the story and for so many kind reviews and PMs. I have gotten to know a number of you—and I have enjoyed that. I won't thank folks by (pen)name since I might forget someone. You know who you are.

Chapter title is a bow to one of my all-time favorite writers (I've borrowed the title from his _Lanterns and Lances,_ a good book for our dark times), a writer whose work has left an imprint in various ways on this story: _James Thurber_. (If you don't know Thomas Merton's lovely short poem, "Elegy for James Thurber", I commend it to your attention. Thurber was a deep influence on Merton's _Cables to the Ace._ )

Don't own Chuck. No money made.

* * *

CHAPTER 56 It's Lighter Than You Think

* * *

 _Nine even strokes of the bell fall like a slowly counted fortune into the far end of my mind while I walk out at the other end of awareness into a very hot new morning in which all the symbols have to be moved._

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 12_

* * *

0:50

Chuck quelled panic. The Hydra Network code was vast, labyrinthine. Chuck could see the patterns, could see the trajectory of thought. Whoever had done it was gifted—Volkoff?—and had built well. Chuck was better, but he was beginning to despair. His intuition told him: not enough time.

0:40

Ellie ran into the cell. She immediately went to Mary. As she examined her, their dad told Ellie briefly what had happened. He found the syringe on the floor and put it in Ellie's bag.

0:30

Everyone else crowded in. Sarah marveled as they did. Casey, Carina (what the hell?), Cheryl. They all were looking expectantly at Chuck. Sarah could sense Chuck's desperation.

She walked behind him and put her arms gently around his waist. She leaned into him, turning her head to the side so that it could rest on his back as he stooped, typing. She could feel him relax a little.

Sarah used to believe that she would die on a mission. She assumed it would be alone. She assumed that no one—except Graham, perhaps, in his twisted way—would care. _This was better_ , Chuck in her arms, family and friends around her. _This was worse too_. Funny how love made you invulnerable and utterly vulnerable at the same time…

0:15

Chuck was certain: not enough time. He stopped typing and put his hands on Sarah's, clasped gently around him. He looked at her ring and his. The sight made him happy, even in despair.

Sarah Walker walking to the Nerd Herd desk was the best thing that had ever happened to him. His life had changed that day; he had shifted the categories in which he lived his life. He'd been lucky. In how many lives does a comet really appear?

0:07

Chuck looked at the large key—button, really—that Leader must have used to start the self-destruct sequence. In a what-the-hell moment, he put his thumb on the button, just touched it.

" _Charles Irving Bartowski_ positively identified. Self-destruct sequence is overridden."

The alarm stopped sounding. The red lights stopped flashing. Sarah squeezed him and then turned him around. She kissed him hard.

They were alive, after all, the two of them, all of them. Alive.

Blinking still but stopped: 0:02

No one said anything for a few seconds. Casey spoke: "Chuck me..." Then Ellie spoke: "We need to get mom out of her as fast as we can."

Casey grabbed Cheryl. "Come on, let's find something to use to bridge the trap." Chuck worked quickly on the computer. His fingerprint had not only overridden the self-destruct, it had opened the Hydra Network, and so Fulcrum to him. In a few minutes, he had transferred the network to the computers at Castle.

His mom had planned ahead. She was a good spy. She had developed her pieces very early and been patient forever. Leader never knew what hit him. She had done it all in front of him and yet somehow behind his back. Even the countdown: she had built in enough time to try to stop it or escape.

Stephen picked up Mary gently and carried her out of the room. Casey and Cheryl had found a cache of lumber in a room near the room the Fulcrum agents had been in. They could if careful, get out. Stephen carried Mary out of the bunker and onto the beach. Casey helped him get her in the boat. Ellie helped Carina, and Chuck helped Sarah. Cheryl and Casey pushed the boat into the water.

* * *

Casey looked at Sarah with a question mark in his eyes. He gestured at Mary's face. "Why is she wearing those _ski goggles_?"

Sarah pursed her lips. "She was going to kill me—Leader was going to kill me, and kill Stephen. But the sight of blood empowered Frost, Mary, so he put on the glasses to alter, mute the red of my blood, the red of Stephen's blood."

"That would work? I mean how could Leader see anything through those lenses? Oh, well. Wait, did you say _Mary_ and _Frost_ and _Leader_?"

Sarah shrugged. "It was crowded in that cell before Stephen and I got there." She smiled exhaustedly.

Chuck had been talking with Ellie and he joined Casey and Sarah.

"Mom's still alive. Ellie's given her something to slow her metabolism. She thinks Mom will make it to the hospital, but who knows if she'll live or if she does, what will be left?"

Everyone had been listening to what Chuck said. Casey glanced at Chuck, half frowning, half smiling.

"So, let me get this straight. Bartowski's dad is some kind of freestyle spy. His mom is a three-for-the-price-of-one Spy Pack (sorry, Bartowski), his ex-best friend is a spy, his jailbird ex-girlfriend is a spy, his wife is…"

Sarah interjected. " _Was_ …" Casey shot her a raised eyebrow but went on.

"…his wife _was_ a spy, and he just, in effect, led a raid on a gonzo hideout, a raid that captured Leader and will have destroyed Volkoff's arms network and destroyed Fulcrum, but Bartowski is _not_ a spy?"

Sarah grin was real but tired. "Chuck is not a spy."

Casey grinned back: "So what the hell is he?"

"He's _Chuck_ and that's good enough, good enough for anything. He's my one-of-a-kind husband."

* * *

At one point, just before they boarded the Navy ship, Sarah turned to Cheryl. Quietly she asked, "Cheryl, are you and Bob a couple?" Cheryl smiled a funny smile. "No, but I'm dating his brother and he's sweet on my sister. So we have to look out for each other. Besides, you know, Sarah, _spies don't fall in love_." She winked at Sarah and Sarah winked back.

* * *

Sarah had been bandaged on the Navy ship. She was now sitting beside Chuck in the hospital waiting room, wrapped in a blanket that Ellie had told a nurse to bring her. Sarah was worried about Mary, and a little about Carina, but she was so tired that she could barely stay awake. The strain of the encounter with Leader—and her own blood loss—not bad, but not negligible—made her eyelids sink. She snuggled into Chuck as well as the wooden arms of the hard grey chairs would allow. She went to sleep, her non-spy head resting the non-spy shoulder of her husband.

* * *

Carina's doctor came out later. Chuck woke Sarah. The doctor said that Carina would spend the night in the hospital but that she was fine. The doctor leaned in and whispered to Chuck and Sarah. "She signed some papers and made me promise to tell you that _everything_ is fine, every _body_ is." They both nodded to the doctor and then grinned at each other.

The doctor left. Chuck kept his voice low: "Do you think she will keep the baby?"

Sarah considered the question, the last few hours. "I believe she wants to keep it. I'd bet money on that. But I'm not sure she will think she can. We will see."

* * *

Casey had gone to his apartment for a while. He came into the waiting room with Emma and a sleepy Molly. Emma had a tote bag in her hand. She gave it to Sarah. Clean clothes. Sarah took the bag. A nurse directed her to a room where she could wash up and change.

Emma sat down across from Chuck. Molly immediately twisted and turned, wanting to get her feet on the floor. Emma put her down and she walked unsteadily to Chuck and climbed up in his lap. She gave him a kiss. He hugged her. He held her close as he told Emma what had happened.

Ellie came out of his mom's room. She looked frazzled and exhausted but not defeated. Sarah joined them as Ellie sat down. Molly climbed from Chuck to Sarah.

"Mom is still hanging in there. She's made of leather and piano wire, I think. I figured out what the poison was. Dad had saved the hypodermic. I administered an anti-toxin. The window for it was closing but I am optimistic the anti-toxin worked.

"I fear the problem is not the poison but the massive psychological trauma. She's not exactly in a coma. She'd not exactly not in a coma. Her mind seems to have _shut down_ —in a sense, anyway. All we can do at this point is wait. If her physical condition remains stable, then we can likely quit worrying about the poison. The questions remain— _will she wake up_? And, if she does, _what will wake up_?"

Since no one knew the answers to the questions, they quietly sat in their shared concern.

* * *

Emma gathered up Molly after she got noisy and fussy. It was very late for her to be out. Sarah carried Molly to the door, calming her, and gave her a kiss before returning her to Emma. Casey was back and was going to give Emma and Molly a ride back home. The car seat was still in the Crown Vic. He had said hello to Carina. He was going to see Kathleen after dropping off Emma and the littlest Bartowski.

* * *

Beckman had been in Castle an eternity. She was bone-weary. She hadn't had much sleep before all this had started. Her head hurt. She did not know if it was just exhaustion or if getting exhausted had hastened on some illness.

Orders for the arrest of all Fulcrum agents had gone out immediately. Things would be a mess for a while since many of them were in the NSA, CIA or FBI, or in some other government agency. Leader's reach had been long. It was lucky Leader had become unstable. It was also lucky that no one in Beckman's immediate circle at the NSA or on the CIA Intersect team was a Fulcrum agent. Plans were also being made to dismantle Volkoff's arms dealings. That would take longer—but Beckman was confident that they could ruin key players in it.

 _All this_ —Volkoff and Leader and Graham and the chaos they caused—because one brilliant man created something that he did not fully understand and could not control. Plato long ago called books "immortal sons forever defying their sires". But wasn't that true of the human condition itself? We create things—books, computer programs, children—and they all run out ahead of us, all take their place in a world we do not control and in ways we cannot control. There was a lesson there somewhere, but Beckman's head hurt too much to chase it. Certainly, Stephen Bartowski and his wife and family had suffered: the Intersect had been a technological version of a family curse.

She put her hand on her forehead as the elevator climbed to her floor of the hotel. She unlocked her door and was surprised by candlelight and music—and the smell of food, the delicious smell of delicious food. She walked in and Roan met her. He had a drink ready. He handed it to her and picked up his own from the room service table. He was dressed impeccably.

"Sorry for leaving so abruptly, Diane. Sometimes I am the world's oldest child."

Beckman stepped up on her toes and he bent down and kissed her. Her headache lifted. "Perhaps Roan. But you always have had remarkable timing. And you are the world's best dressed oldest child."

She wanted to go to the hospital—and she would—but first, she would have dinner and enjoy the fact that Roan had returned.

* * *

Carina was sitting up in her bed. She felt stupid. Her arm hurt like hell, but, really, why did she need to be in a hospital room, why did she need to spend the night? The door to her room opened and a handsome young orderly came in with extra blankets. He looked at her with a glance of forthright admiration—and _intent_. Carina opened her mouth to respond to the glance when she heard a soft knock on her door.

It was Bryce. She smiled at him. He looked concerned until he saw her smile. He smiled back. She scooted over and patted the bed.

"Come up here and sit beside me, big boy, and I will tell you the entire harrowing tale," she gestured at her wounded arm, "a tale in which I am, naturally, the red-headed leading lady."

"You are always naturally the leading lady, Carina."

She bumped Bryce with her good shoulder, although it made her wounded arm hurt more. _Ouch_. "Thanks, Bryce."

The orderly had deposited the blankets and left the room. Bryce noticed. Carina did not seem to. "Say, Carina, did you want to tell that orderly something? It looked like you did when I came in."

Carina was genuinely puzzled. "What orderly, Bryce? So, here's how I became the heroine of this tale…"

* * *

Chuck and Sarah were both asleep under the blanket when Beckman arrived. She bent down and touched Chuck's shoulder. He looked up sleepily. "General?"

"Good work today, Chuck."

"Thanks. Mom's still…out, I think. We were hoping there might be some change." Chuck's face was clearing of sleep.

"I just wanted to see how everyone was doing. I stopped in and talked to Carina for a while. Bryce seems to be keeping her spirits up, not that I have ever really seen them down."

Beckman sat down. She gazed at Chuck thoughtfully.

"So, Chuck, am I right that you and Sarah want out? She wants to resign. You just want us finally to leave you alone?"

"Yes, General, that's about right."

"We'll have to talk about that. But we won't do it today. Everyone is fatigued and with good reason."

"Is my mom going to go to jail, General?"

"No, Chuck. My report will be that Leader died in the raid and that Mary Bartowski, his long-term prisoner, was freed. Whatever Mary _did_ , Chuck, was not something _she_ did. Leader was not real, although he certainly caused enough carnage, enough damage. But you can't prosecute a computer program—at least not so far as I know.

Besides, neither the new CIA chief—a surprisingly reasonable woman, Kate Curley—nor I want it known that CIA was responsible for the creation of Volkoff and of Leader. Better to let the tide take those facts out and for them to sink into the sea of unrecorded history.

"If she is still Leader when she wakes up, she will have to be confined and guarded, for her own sake and everyone else's, but she will be where you and Ellie and Stephen can work to try to cure her. I give you my word. If she is not still Leader, and her condition allows it, she will be free to go."

Chuck's eyes misted over. His voice failed him. He reached out and took Beckman's hand. He realized Sarah had awakened—and had been listening. She took Beckman's hand too, so that they were both holding it. Sarah whispered: "The Bartowskis thank you."

"You are all welcome." Beckman got misty. She looked away. "Now that I think about it, I have something else to talk to Bryce about before I leave. I will see the two of your tomorrow. Let's have dinner at my hotel." An order—but a friendly one. They both agreed.

* * *

Stephen heard Mary speak. Very softly. "Stephen, is that you?" He took her hand, so thin, in his. "Yes, it's me, Mary. And Ellie." Ellie stood on the other side of the bed. Mary slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were very weak—but clear.

"Eleanor. I'm so sorry about the wedding. We'll fix it together." Ellie gazed at her mom uncomprehendingly for a moment, then put her head on her mother's chest and wept tears she had held back since her mom had left her years ago.

Mary gently stroked Ellie's hair as she cried. She turned to Stephen and smiled. Mary Bartowski's smile. A sad smile but hers.

Stephen kissed her forehead, then went out and got Chuck and Sarah. They entered the room and Mary was still smiling. Ellie was wiping her eyes and telling her about Devon.

Chuck took Stephen's place by Mary's beside. She kissed him and whispered into his ear, but Sarah could hear what she said. "Aces, Charles, aces—just in case your dad forgets to say so." Chuck blushed with pride and pleasure. Mary looked at Sarah. "My brave daughter. Thank you so much for all that you did for me—and that you have done for _our_ family."

Mary was too tired to stay awake for long. Stephen and Ellie decided they were going to stay at the hospital. If Bryce was up for it, they would go ahead and do a second treatment. Everything was still set up. It would give them something to do other than sit in Mary's room.

* * *

When Casey got to Kathleen's, he could see her looking out the window, waiting for him. She was lovely—he could and he knew he always would see the girl in the woman. She was lost in thought but refocused and brightened as soon as she saw him. She waved from inside. She opened the door as he reached it.

"You're ok. Everyone else is ok?"

"As far as I know. Haven't heard yet about Mother Bartowski. But, yes, everyone else is ok."

Kathleen took his hand and led him to the kitchen. He sat down at the counter. She poured them both a glass of whiskey. She stood and looked at him. They sipped their drinks.

"What happens now, John? Will there still be a Team Bartowski after all this? What if Beckman reassigns you?"

"Doesn't matter, Kath."

She looked suspicious, on the edge of being hurt. "Doesn't matter?"

"Right. It doesn't matter. I am home and I am not leaving you again."

Kathleen beamed. She leaned over the counter and kissed him. "Welcome home, Marine."

* * *

Emma and Molly were asleep when Chuck and Sarah got home. They were too tired to shower, too tired to talk. They undressed and got in bed. Chuck lay down on his back. Sarah put her head on his chest and wound herself around him.

Their home was quiet, happy. They could hear each other breathing. They were alive. They were together. They were so sleepy. They slept.


	58. Chapter 57: The Corridor to Freedom

A/N Keep an eye out for the _Epilogue_ —but it may be a few days before it shows up.

Of the making of books there is no end—so an old book says—and so too of the reading of books. I thank you for the time you have put in reading mine.

I'd really love to hear your parting thoughts—whether you've been a regular reviewer or whether you have not.

Don't own Chuck.

* * *

CHAPTER 58 The Corridor to Freedom

* * *

 _I am about to build my nest_

 _In the misdirected and unpaid express_

 _As I walk away from this poem_

 _Hiding the ace of freedoms_

 _Thomas Merton, Cables to the Ace 87_

* * *

Morning sunlight: windows full of blonde light. Next to Chuck, a halo of blonde intensified by the light. Sarah was still asleep. Chuck took the time—he had the time, finally—to contemplate his wife. He forced no words to his mind; he let himself luxuriate in the blonde-on-blonde, heartwarming presence of his sunlit wife, the keeper of his freedom.

She shifted. She opened one eye, blue and blonde now mixed. "What are you doing, Chuck?" A question. Not a challenge.

"Loving you."

"With your eyes?"

"'With my body, I thee worship.'"

"Um, I can think of less…ceremonial…attitudes you might take toward me right now."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Care to name one?"

Sarah opened her mouth and Molly yelled in toddler-babble. For a moment, Chuck actually thought Sarah was making the sound. She saw that he did and she laughed.

"I think our daughter has spoken." Sarah got up and put on her robe. Chuck grinned and shook his head. Sarah got to the door, then skipped quickly back to the bed and kissed him deeply, opening her mouth, inviting him to open his. He did. He began to groan. She pulled back.

"Hold on to that thought until later."

* * *

Sarah sighed happily as she drank her second cup of coffee. She and Chuck were spending the early morning with Molly. The little girl had gotten comfortable in her new home, but this meant that she was better than before at moving around in it. Sarah's wrists and ankles were sore and tender, so chasing Molly was Chuck's job. He was winded and desperate in about four minutes. Sarah chuckled under her breath at the David and Goliath contest. Tiny David bested lanky Goliath again and again.

Eventually, Chuck was able to get Molly interested in her blocks, and they played together happily for a long time. Sarah noticed that Chuck seemed invested in the blocks Molly used for her tottering stacks. Finally, she realized that he had Molly spelling out words (of course, Molly was innocent of this). 'M O M'. 'D A D'. Molly knocked the two small stacks down and clapped her hands.

Chuck rebuilt the first one. He pointed to it and Molly looked at it as if she was reading it. Chuck then pointed to Sarah.

Molly said, "Momma".

It was a moment suspended in time. Sarah's life finished its wholesale reorientation. She was Molly's mom, not Graham's wildcard enforcer. Chuck picked Molly up and put her in Sarah's lap. Sarah kissed the little blonde head, pulling her close to her face, Molly's hair mixing with her own—blonde on blonde.

* * *

Later that morning, Chuck and Sarah were in his mom's hospital room. Stephen and Ellie and Devon were already there. Mary was awake and herself. They chatted for a few minutes about Molly, and, much to everyone's excitement, Sarah related Molly calling her 'Momma'. Sarah showed Mary photos of Molly on her phone.

After a little while, Chuck asked his mom a question: "Mom, there are things I still don't understand about what happened in…Leader's headquarters." Mary nodded for him to continue. "Why did the lights go out? Was that part of a plan of yours?"

"No, Chuck. Leader was, among his many vices, cheap. He had that bunker built secretly and as cheaply as possible. The electrical system was wonky. That was just happenstance."

Chuck grinned. "And the button for the self-destruct. You programmed that to recognize my fingerprints?"

"Yes, yours and your father's. If Stephen had been less…distressed…he would have been able to stop it."

"But how could you know either of us would push the button?"

Mary put on a face of mock-shock: "Chuck, you are still a boy. You will never _not_ be a boy. And, since you were a boy, you have never been able to keep your hands off anything that interested you."

Sarah spoke without thinking: "Tell me about it!" Chuck blushed so deeply it looked like his hair changed color. When Sarah realized what she had said in front of her father- and mother-in-law, she burned red too. Everyone else was rolling.

Ellie broke in, still laughing. "Do you have memories of Leader…of what he did?" It was a daughter's question and a doctor's question.

Mary became deeply sad. "Yes. I do. They are not exactly like memories. They're more like old home movies, grainy and flickering and badly edited. I see myself…that is, I see Leader…I see what Leader does, but it is like watching a home movie of something that you know happened but that you cannot remember first-personally. I guess you could say that my Leader memories—if this makes sense—are third-personal. _Mine_ in the sense that I can access them. But _not mine_ in the sense that the memories never seem to take place from my point of view. They're like twisted nightmares."

Ellie nodded, clearly both listening and taking mental notes. "And how did you fight him?"

"I figured out fairly early on that he could not hide his thoughts or feelings from me—but I could hide mine from him. Or, I could, as long as I thought indirectly. I couldn't just say to myself what I thought or felt, I had to 'code' it. Like the Carmen Sandiego message. I knew Leader would never have noticed that outfit of Jill's or given any credence to the fact that Vincent Smith sometimes called her 'Carmen Sandiego'. That kind of popular culture reference was beyond Leader's ken. He had no childhood, remember, no formative years. He just was as he was, from the beginning.

"I was able to foil many of his most bloodthirsty and horrible plans, sometimes with help from Stephen, who risked his life to stop Leader again and again. I assume he has either not mentioned that or downplayed it?" Stephen looked at the floor. Chuck nodded.

"Leader was a program. He could think only in a linear fashion (can you tell I am the wife of an engineer?), in 2-D. So I had to think geometrically, in 3-D. I could not force Leader to do things, but I could _influence_ him in ways he could not detect. The problem was that I was so weak. I could only gather the strength to fight him once in a while. I could do little things.

"I could make him anxious, make him delay, make him dither. I pushed him to build the bunker under Roberts' house. I wanted to get out of Russia and near home. But I couldn't risk direct contact.

"I was able to change the timer on the self-destruct. I was able to program the fingerprint ID. I did the little things I could do, things I thought might influence the outcome of a direct attack. I had intended to switch off Leader's stupid traps, but things in the cell got…complicated."

"That's the other thing I wanted to know, Mom, " Chuck added. "Why did Leader lock himself in that cell?"

"Because he was afraid of me escaping, of what I might do if I got out. He was celled in me, and I was celled in that room. I'm not sure that his being in a cell-within-a-cell ever struck Leader."

"So, Dad," Chuck turned to Stephen, "is Leader _gone_? I mean we never used any deprogramming device."

"I think the psychological strain of what happened in the cell caused Leader to…disintegrate. The floodgates and firewalls he was talking about kept him integral. He thought they protected Mary, made her inaccessible to him. But they actually kept him together. When Mary summoned the resolve to kill him—to kill herself," Stephen reached for Mary's hand, "she destroyed him. The code simply dispersed in her mind, like a pinch of salt in a pool of water. Not enough of him left, if you'll excuse the phrase, to even be tasted.

"But we will have to keep watch. Mary will need to let us know if she feels any...Leader-like changes. But I feel confident he is gone for good."

Mary looked up, her eyes a deep well of sorrow. "Leader took so much from me. So many years. I missed the lives of my children. I missed the life of my husband. Leader took all that and I can't get it back."

"No, Mary, you can't. But we can get you well and you can be a part of everyone's life now. You took your life back from him."

The conversation then became less weighty. Chuck started telling Buy More stories, and soon everyone was smiling again.

* * *

Sarah left the room to get coffee for everyone. She ran into Carina in the coffee shop. Carina was looking at a map on her phone.

"Hey, Carina. How's the arm?"

"Fine, Sarah. How are you?" She gestured at Sarah's bandaged wrists.

"I'll be ok. I've had worse. You remember that knife fight in Istanbul?"

Carina got a momentary, faraway look in her eyes.

"You are really quitting? No more knife fights in Istanbul, no more dashes between the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia?"

"As I recall, I left a red trail from one to the other."

"Yeah, yeah, you did. Those CIA doctors did a good job, though. The scar doesn't show, not even when you wear your skimpiest bikini."

"No, it doesn't show. But the scar is there, Carina. All the scars, they're all still there. I'd like to live without getting any more scars and without giving any more scars if that's possible.

"There will be days when I miss it, I know; it wasn't all bad, not every moment. You were a good part of it, Carina. You helped me to find a way to let it go a little, not hold it all so tightly against me. But I couldn't keep it at arm's length for long, not the way you could."

Carina put her hand gently on her own stomach, still flat, but different. "Not at arm's length anymore."

"What are you going to do? Do you know?" Sarah's voice was cautious.

"Not for sure. I have decided to carry the baby to term. The alternative is not one that… _I_ can face. Maybe others can. I can't. I'm speaking for me, reporting on myself. Maybe I will give the baby up for adoption…I don't know. Maybe I will keep it. Would it be crazy, me as a mom?"

"No, Carina. You are a remarkable woman. You can do whatever you put your heart and mind to doing." Sarah paused. Carina studied the floor for a moment and then lifted her head and gave Sarah a bright smile.

"What's the map a map of, Carina?" Sarah pointed at Carina's phone.

"DC. I was working out how far it is from my place to Beckman's offices."

"Why?"

"Beckman has offered to move Bryce to the NSA. She's already cleared it with the new CIA head. He will have a desk job—he'll be in charge of deep cover operations. He doesn't have a place in DC. I do. I have an extra room. So I invited him to move in." Sarah raised her eyebrows. "No, no, not like _that_ , at least I don't _think_ so. He'll be my roommate. He's offered to help me during the pregnancy—beyond it too if I keep the baby. He seems excited to do it. Can you imagine us at, say, _Lamaze_ classes? Or changing diapers?" Carina giggled.

Sarah did too, but then she looked at Carina seriously. "Why not? Bryce has changed. He's had to change. Stephen says he is doing much better. The deprogramming is working. He says that although Bryce's limp and the tremor in his hands are not likely to go away, most of his other conditions will or already have.

"The Bryce I knew would never have made that offer, Carina, not even if the child was his. If it was his, he would have supported it financially, been decent about it, I'm sure, but he would not have wanted to be any part of the pregnancy or of the child's life. He has changed.

"You know, Carina," Sarah's voice grew quiet, "being friends _too_ doesn't make…the rest of it…worse and doesn't make it tame or boring. It makes it better. A lot better. Layered and more exciting."

"Layered?" Carina licked her lips.

"Some things never change." They both laughed. "When will you leave?"

"Oh, no time soon. I still have some regular vacation time coming. I want to hang out here with all of you. With Bryce. We won't go until the deprogramming is done. Oh, say, do you know Beckman's niece?"

"No."

"Yes, Rose. I guess she's not a blood relative. She's the daughter of one of Beckman's oldest friends. She's a psychiatric nurse for the CIA. She lives in Washington.

"She's pregnant too. She's farther along than me, but not too far. Anyway, Beckman seems convinced that Rose and I will get along, and she made me promise to get in touch with Rose when I get to DC. I guess she doesn't have many close friends…She was Bryce's nurse for a while in DC. He liked her."

"Well, there you go, Carina. A support system already in place. Give me a call tomorrow. We'll have you over for dinner. Chuck will make you his Chicken Pepperoni—since you are eating for two."

"Chicken… _Pepperoni_?" Carina looked terrified.

* * *

Morgan left Big Mike's office with the Ass Man vest over his arm. He had gotten the job! He wanted to call Alex. He'd tell her and talk with her then he would call Chuck. _Assistant Manager Morgan Grimes_. He thought he'd have to go to the men's room and tuck his shirt in. Assistant Managers, he reckoned, were tuckers. He pulled out his phone and admired the screen saver—a photo of Alex. He called her.

* * *

Chuck watched as Stephen got up. He was going to leave Mary's room for a little while and check on Bryce. Chuck got up and followed him. He stopped him in the corridor.

"Hey, Dad. You've not mentioned Frost—but, more important, Mom hasn't either. What's going on?" Stephen looked at Chuck but seemed unsurprised by the question.

"I think Leader took Frost with him, insofar as there was a Frost to take. Or she took him. Ellie and I noticed last night, during a couple of times when she was awake, that she seemed to have no recollection of Frost. I don't know exactly what that means. I don't know if it means that the skills she developed as an agent are also gone somehow, gone with her agent identity or what.

"Her memory of her family seems intact, at least up until she left, so losing Frost did not take that. But she's not mentioned Frost and she certainly hasn't been Frost. It seems like a change in her emotional…attitudes. Her old…distance hasn't resurfaced.

"I need you to tell Sarah how sorry I am for how I treated her. For my doubts. I had my…reasons. But I understand those reasons better now and they did not justify me in the way I thought. Not about Sarah."

* * *

Lester and Jeff stood at the Nerd Herd desk. On the desk was a contract. A man in a three-piece suit was holding out a pen. He'd seen a video online of the performance at Chuck and Sarah's party. The video had become a sensation with the under-12 crowd. Now, a popular, local-channel children's TV show wanted to hire them as the show's dedicated band.

Lester looked at Jeff. "This is it, Jeff, the big time. All our dreams are about to come true. Wine, women and song!" Lester took off his grey tie and threw it with a grand gesture to the floor. He took the man's pen and signed the contract. He handed the pen to Jeff. Jeff looked confused.

After a moment, he signed. "I like kids," he muttered.

Neither read the small print. They would be required to wear pink bunny suits and lip-synch their songs. Lester would be 'Hippity' and Jeff would be 'Hop'. Thus did _Jeffster_ become _Hippity-Hop_.

* * *

"Dad," Chuck said, stopping his dad once more just outside Bryce's room, keeping his dad in the corridor. "Were you involved in Bryce's efforts to get me expelled at Stanford?"

His dad dropped his eyes to the floor. "Yes. I wanted to keep you out of that Project. I saw your name pop up when I broke into the CIA computer system. I knew already from previous break-ins that Bryce had joined the CIA. I met with Bryce. He was already against you being recruited for the Project. I did not come up with the plan—Bryce did. But I…signed off…on it."

Chuck sighed in resignation. "Well, thanks for admitting it. You know, Dad, you and Bryce are quite a pair. It's amazing I survived my family and my friends. Help him, Dad, and tell him I know about this. I'm not mad about any of it anymore. It's over. Look, I do not want to be manipulated ever again. Is that clear?"

"Yes, it's clear, Chuck. I'll tell Bryce. You should talk to him about it. You two should be friends again."

"Little steps, Dad. We are taking some. I don't want to talk to him about this now. I will. I am optimistic, I guess, that we can eventually be friends again."

* * *

Chuck and Sarah had got dressed up for dinner with Beckman. Roan was there too.

They spent the first part of the evening eating and chatting. Roan was a very funny and charming dinner companion. Chuck and Sarah were both feeling happy and relaxed. Beckman seemed caught up in the mood too.

After dessert was cleared away, and coffee and digestifs were served, Beckman became serious. She reached into her bag and took out a large, stuffed manila envelope.

"I stopped by the hospital early this morning and talked with Mary. Poor thing. But she is better than I feared, quite a bit better." Chuck and Sarah both nodded. They had heard about the visit.

"She made me promise to make good on Ellie's wedding, and that is what I am going to do. Here is a check for Ellie that will cover the money she lost on reservations and so on. It is her _pay_ , so to speak, for helping with the raid on Leader. Tell her I would like an invitation to the wedding. It would give me another reason to come here." She shot a look at Roan.

"I also have this." She handed a second small envelope to Chuck. He opened it. Inside was a check for a hefty amount of money. The check was made out to him, and on the memo line, it read: _severance package_. "We never paid you for all the time you put in on Team Bartowski, Chuck, and that was wrong. So, I have given you all of the back pay you had coming.

"It says 'severance pay'. Does that mean…?" Chuck was almost holding his breath.

"It means we are done with you, Chuck Bartowski. You are free, as it were. No longer property of the US government, no longer Sarah's asset."

"He was never my asset, Diane; he was always my gift." Sarah gazed steadily into Chuck's eyes as she said this. He gazed back for a long moment, and he took her hand under the table. He turned back to Beckman.

"But I still have the _you know_ ," he pointed at his head, dropping his voice to a whisper.

"I know. But you can turn it off, right?"

"Yes. It is off now."

"Do I have your word you will not turn it back on?"

Chuck glanced to Sarah. She looked into his eyes and nodded. "Yes."

"Then I trust you not to do so. Obviously, you and Stephen and Ellie need to continue to work to get rid of it altogether, because you remain a possible target as long as you have it. Also, you need to continue to work because we are still uncertain about its long-term effects on you. All I ask is that you keep me up-to-date on the progress of that effort."

"Really? That's it?"

"Well, I have good reason to believe that you will have a very competent agent—once the CIA's best—with you day _and night_. Actually, you might have two around, if Casey takes you up on your offer. I think he will. He wants to stay in Burbank. He has friends and family here."

"Besides, Fulcrum was the other major player in the Intersect sweepstakes. They are on the run and soon to be out of business. If we are lucky, we can contain this. I have already called for the dissolution of the CIA Intersect team and for their data and hardware to be destroyed. Soon, the Intersect should be a Bartowski family secret."

Chuck frowned thoughtfully. "Good. Say, you mentioned our offer to Casey…But we haven't made one yet. How did you know about our plan…?"

She pointed at herself: "General, remember? I think it's a good plan, Chuck."

"Right. Thanks, General."

"One last thing—but important. I was able to push these through as a top secret, need-to-know matter." She handed Sarah a small stack of papers, stapled together. "Your adoption papers for Molly. All you need to do is sign them and send them back in. In a few weeks, she will be legally your daughter."

"Just like that?" Sarah was shocked.

"Just like that. It helps to have friends in high places. There are members of the committee that oversaw Team Bartowski…well, let's just say that, in Washington, almost anything can be done if you have the right phone numbers…Not always a good thing, obviously, but it was in this case." Beckman was clearly proud of herself.

Sarah leaned one way to hug Chuck and then she leaned the other way to hug Beckman. Roan chuckled. "And the boys in the boy's club all say she is such a hard ass. Let me tell you, I have felt…"

"Roan." Beckman cut him off and he shot her a contrite look-and then his best smile. She shook her head. "You are impossible."

Chuck could not help himself. "So, what's up with you two? Dinner has seemed celebratory all around…"

Beckman scowled at Chuck for a second, then her face relaxed into a smile. "Yes, well, let's just say that Roan has agreed that if I am willing to lengthen the chain that binds me to my desk, he is willing to…shorten the chain that binds him to me." Beckman glanced at Roan a bit nervously, but he nodded at her and laughed.

"I love it when Diane talks chains..."

* * *

As they headed back to the apartment, Chuck stared out the passenger window of the Porsche.

"What are you thinking, Chuck?"

"I was thinking about you coming to my room the night of the kiss, about when all this took a different turn. I had all these Team Piranha plans. I was going to hide in plain sight. All that. I mean some of that stuff sort of happened, but not even remotely like I thought it would. I had no idea that Tahoe was coming, or Reno, or Boulder City or Las Vegas. The whole state of Nevada, really. I had no idea you would write me letters or that we would get married and have a daughter. What I expected and what I got were very different."

"Is what you got worse than what you expected?" Sarah asked the question in a delicate voice.

"No, it's _so much more_ than I could have expected. It's wonderful, you are wonderful, and Molly is wonderful. It's just that all along we kept making all these plans, and not only did we not carry them out, in many cases we never ever got started on them. Events just carried us away."

"Hats off to the human condition, Chuck. We can't help but plan. But our plans almost never work out. It's like they say in sports: 'That's why you play the game.' Our plans affect the future, sure, but they rarely decide it."

* * *

Chuck and Sarah got back to the apartment. It wasn't too late.

Sarah went into the bedroom. She took off all her clothes and slipped beneath the covers on the bed. Chuck was locking the door and turning off the lights. Emma had taken Molly to Ellie's apartment. Stephen was staying with Mary, so Emma and Molly were using Ellie's guest room. Chuck and Sarah were alone in the apartment. Sarah knew this. Chuck did not, not yet.

Chuck came into the bedroom. He stopped and looked at Sarah, spread out under the covers. He could see her face and her shoulders. Her eyes, she knew, gave her plan away, if the outline of her body in the bed did not. She could not keep her eyes from smoldering. She was on fire.

Chuck walked to the side of the bed and knelt down. He looked into her eyes, smolder on smolder.

"You know, wife, we do not have time for a proper honeymoon right now. But we could… _honeymoon_ right here, tonight." One eyebrow danced suggestively.

"Husband, are you suggesting we have an _improper_ honeymoon right here, tonight?"

"That is exactly what I am suggesting."

He leaned over her. She could see her face in his brown eyes. She knew he could see his in her blue ones. She put her arms up and snaked them sinuously around his neck. She pulled him slowly and purposefully toward her.

She kissed him.

 _She_ kissed him and _he_ kissed her.

He grabbed a handful covers and threw them all onto the floor.


	59. Epilogue: The Dreamer Evasive

A/N1 Think of this as a mint on your hotel pillow as you end your stay. It is nothing substantial, really, just a little something to thank you, gentle readers.

Don't own Chuck. Don't own _The Three Investigators_. Don't own Merton. One last time: no money made.

* * *

 _The Three Investigators: The Dreamer Evasive_

By Zettel

* * *

NOTICE TO THE READER You are under no obligation whatever to read a single word of this introduction.

I SEEM TO BE constantly introducing something. You know me: I am a famous Hollywood sci-fi director. But let's leave my name out of this. For years, I have been introducing my own movies to the public.

I have even on occasion introduced books of sci-fi and mystery and suchlike for my fans to enjoy during quiet evenings at home.

Now I find myself introducing a trio of detectives who call themselves The Three Investigators. Well, actually, the shingle reads "Virtual/Reality Investigations", but they are known to themselves and their friends as The Three Investigators. It's an inside joke. I don't think it very funny. Anyway, these detectives drive around LA in a Porsche and a Crown Vic, solving mysteries, riddles, enigmas and conundrums of all kinds—on the mean streets of LA and on the mean paths of the computer.

Preposterous, isn't it?

Frankly, I would prefer to have nothing to do with them, but I rashly promised to introduce them. I keep my promises—even though this promise was won from me by an act of sheer skullduggery. But that is a story for another day.

To business, now. The three who call themselves The Three Investigators are John Casey, Sarah Bartowski, and Chuck Bartowski.

John Casey is a large, thickly muscled man. But he is not a brute; don't let the ceaseless grunting fool you. He's a patriot and an adventurer—but he is also a family man. Interestingly, he is newly engaged—re-engaged?—to his longtime sweetheart, Kathleen McHugh. He's turning out to be a success as a father too. His daughter, Alex, thinks highly of him. They spend a lot of time together—sparring in her martial arts studio and shooting at the range. Casey is in the best shape of his life. Alex is turning out to be a good shot.

Sarah Bartowski is a tall blonde—a deadly beauty with a heart of gold. As long as you keep your hands to yourself and as long as you never threaten the people she loves, she will treat you with respect. If not, well, let's put it this way: John Casey is seriously afraid of her—and you should be seriously afraid of John Casey. Do the math. She's the real detective in the bunch. She's a private eye who sees everything.

Chuck Bartowski is—well, I won't give you my personal opinion of him because I can never seem to make up my mind about him.

He is Sarah's husband and she adores him. That alone makes him seem a force to be reckoned with. No mere mortal could command the adoration of that blonde Amazon. But he is also a video game player, a lover of bad movies and a reader of good books. He has a canny and an uncanny relationship to computers, and he runs the cybersecurity side of Virtual/Reality. He seems a man and a boy, a hero and a loser, a detective and a schmuck. So, I will refrain from trying to figure all that out, and stick to a few facts.

He is tall and lanky of build, with brown, curly hair and brown eyes. Even as a small child, Chuck's friends and family called him 'special'. He's always won the admiration of the people who know him well; they seek him out and they are fiercely loyal to him. John Casey is a good example of what I mean. He got to know Chuck and, although he constantly teases and derides Chuck, he does it out of genuine fondness.

Chuck has a deep, abiding love of family. His life does not revolve around Virtual/Reality, although he takes it seriously. The center of his life is Sarah and their adopted daughter, a beautiful blonde toddler named Molly.

Chuck is very smart. So are Sarah and Casey. Hire these three, and you are getting a brain trust. But Chuck is smarter than most people who are very smart. Even more, his education is not a collection of glass and beads to show at parties. No, he actually uses his education to make sense of himself and his life.

I realize this may make him seem a little hard to take seriously. You might think no one could be quite like this. But I assure you that he is no creature of fiction. He is a living, breathing man. If he hadn't hoodwinked me in the way he did on that fateful night, maybe my feelings about him would be less undecided. I might even like him myself. But, like I said, that is another story.

I could tell you more, I suppose, but with each word, it would all seem more fantastic and unbelievable. I could tell you about how Chuck once worked for the…well, I am not really at liberty to tell you that. Sarah told me she would write 'The End' over _me_ if I ever told. She is a woman who keeps her promises. And now, I have kept my promise. Assuming you didn't just skip this introduction, you are no doubt gladder than I am that it is finished.

* * *

 _The Three Investigators: The Dreamer Evasive_

 _{Five Months Later}_

Sarah was sitting at her desk in her office at Virtual/Reality. She had on a pair of flats. Being a detective was hard on your feet. That wasn't just a cliché from noir voice-overs. She was enjoying the view out her window. The money that Stephen had given them as a wedding gift, combined with Chuck's severance pay, allowed them to find a decent set of offices, and Sarah's had the best view—Chuck had made sure of that. Of course, he had. That was the sort of thing her husband did without having to think about it and without any expectation that it would earn him anything special. This had—as a matter of fact—earned him something special. Sarah blushed even alone in her office when she thought about how she had made her appreciation known to her husband.

Sarah had a small paperback book in her hands. She had been reading it as a way of passing time until she went to pick up Molly from daycare. She had drifted out of the book and started staring out the window.

Chuck was out of the office. They had gotten a call right after lunch from Winston Smithers, the CEO of a large, LA-based company. They had done some very successful work for him right after they opened the doors of the firm. He was a friend of Diane Beckman's and she had suggested Virtual/Reality when she heard about Smithers' corporate espionage problem.

Chuck and Sarah and Casey solved the problem—identifying the culprit and the methods used for dispersing the stolen information—in just a couple of days. Smithers had been grateful and had paid them more than their fee. In fact, he put them on a generous retainer and had thus made keeping up with daily expenses much easier, especially at the beginning.

Surprisingly, the firm's finances turned out not to be a consuming worry. Over the last few years, Chuck's dad had spent his downtime between missions to frustrate Fulcrum designing phone apps. He had created two of the most popular recent apps and was now more than comfortable, considerably more. He had funded his efforts to fight Fulcrum with still lots and lots left over.

Under Leader's nose, Mary had stashed away a large portion of the legitimate profits that Volkoff industry made over the years, and so she had a vast amount of money in a numbered Swiss account. The government had frozen all of the other Volkoff and Fulcrum assets—if Beckman knew about Mary's account or even suspected it, she had not let on.

Each parent had offered to fund Virtual/Reality, but between Chuck and Sarah's own money and Smithers' early retainer, they had been able politely to refuse. They hoped not to have to take any money from them, and so far they had not—but it was hard to deny that knowing that there was money available made the stresses of starting a business less intense.

Chuck's mom and dad had returned to their home in Tarzana. Stephen had never sold it, although it stood empty and apparently abandoned for years. As a matter of fact, when Stephen came back to California over the years to look in on Chuck and Ellie, he would live and work out of the basement of the home. He had long ago turned it into a headquarters and workshop of his own.

Ellie and Devon got married a few weeks after Mary's rescue. Mary had been able to attend, and so neither Ellie nor Devon was sorry for the delay. Stephen walked Ellie down the aisle—as she always dreamed—and Mary saw her eldest child wed the man she dearly loved. It was a moving ceremony. The matron of honor might have cried—a lot. The best man might have been beautiful in his tux. He might have been so beautiful that the matron of honor early took him home with her and to her soon very heated bed.

Mary had recovered well physically but psychologically, although Leader seemed clearly to be gone (as did Frost), the damage Leader had done to others and the time he had stolen from Mary weighed heavily on her. Mary did not like to be shut indoors alone and she was still having a difficult time with a form of agoraphobia: open outdoor spaces made her nervous. She was struggling with bouts of deep depression. They were less frequent now but they were still debilitating when they came.

It turned out that talking to Sarah was often the best thing for Mary. Even with Frost gone, Mary felt a kinship to Sarah—and she knew that Sarah had struggled and still sometimes did struggle with her own past actions and her own sense of life stolen from her. They rarely talked in specifics—but each could understand the other on these issues almost telepathically. Sarah found that it did her good too.

Not that she and Mary got along all the time. As Mary continued to stabilize, some of the fire and intensity that made her a fine CIA agent returned, and it manifested itself in flare-ups of a desire to control the people and things around her. That lead to momentary loggerheads here and there, but on the whole, Sarah had found Mary more mother than mother-in-law. They were close.

Emma had managed a transfer from the Vegas hotel she had worked at forever to another in the same chain in LA. She had found a place not far from the apartment complex that Chuck and Sarah and Molly lived in. Her Boulder City house she had paid off a few years before and she still owned it. She was renting it to a former coworker from the Vegas hotel that wanted a place outside of Vegas to raise her son. Emma spent a lot of her free time with her granddaughter and a lot of it with Casey's Kathleen. The two women became fast friends.

She and Sarah had bonded again as mother and daughter. Sarah's memory of her mother as weak and downtrodden was, she came to understand, a child's memory of a woman struggling mightily with difficult circumstances. Sarah had for a long time thought of herself as her father's child only. That thought was mistaken. She had a great deal of her mother in her too.

Kathleen had taken a job as the office manager of Virtual/Reality, and she was, in many ways, the person who kept the firm up and running—running with a paramilitary precision. She was extraordinarily competent at the job and presented a wonderful, friendly face to the public. Sarah still more than half-believed that Smithers had retained them as much to keep getting chances to interact with Kathleen as because of their good work for him. But Kathleen was—as she had always been—a one-man woman, and that man was John Casey.

Sarah's reflections were cut short by a knock on the frame of her door. It was Morgan and Alex. Sarah turned away from the window and put her paperback on the desk.

"Hey, Sarah!" Morgan smiled.

Morgan was wearing his Buy More assistant manager clothes—and, other than the Buy-More green tennis shoes he was wearing, he looked nice. His job, and particularly his girlfriend, suited him. He'd come a long way in the last few months. Of course, that could be said for them all, but it seemed particularly true of Morgan.

"Hi, Morgan! Hi, Alex!"

Alex gently pushed Morgan through the door. "Hey, Sarah!"

"What brings you two by?"

"We were out looking at apartments…" Alex grinned.

"Apartments? Oh!" Sarah smiled back at Alex.

"My place is great, but it's not really set up for two, especially with all of Morgan's toys…"

"Collectibles," Morgan offered but was ignored.

"…and his video gaming equipment. We could also use a larger bed…"

Morgan was suddenly very interested in his Buy More-green tennis shoes.

"We saw a couple of apartments we liked and we're trying to make up our mind. We thought we would talk to Mom and see what she thought. We just popped in to say hello."

Morgan walked up to her desk and looked out the window as Sarah had been doing.

"Nice view! Say," he glanced down at the paperback, "what are you reading?"

"It's a complicated long poem by Thomas Merton, _Cables to the Ace_. General Beckman sent it to me. She thought I would like it. I do, but it takes a while to sink in."

"General Beckman sent it?" Alex was now looking at the unprepossessing paperback.

"She's a big reader, especially along certain lines. We share a love of Browning. She thought I would find the Merton stimulating and suggestive (her words). She thought it shed light on the Bartowski family curse," Sarah pointed at her head (she now sort of hated even the word, 'Intersect').

"She's right, I guess. I like it because it is smart and silly, deep and playful, all at the same time. I also like it because the title makes me think of Chuck—of how his dad and mom like to tell him he's _aces_. That word, 'aces', has come to be sort of synonymous with 'happy' for me…"

Sarah had no idea how big the smile was on her face as she thought about her husband and about how their life together was aces. Morgan and Alex looked at each other in response to her unconscious smile and grinned.

Sarah saw the grins and then realized the size of her smile but she let it shine on. She loved Chuck Bartowski and she had figured out what to do about it.

"Anyway, I like the poem. I keep it on my desk and look at it now and then, just reading stanzas at random."

"Where's Chuck?" Chuck and Morgan hadn't had a lot of time to just hang out for a while. They were both busy with new jobs and both had women in their lives. Sarah knew the two men missed each other.

"He's on an errand for a client. The client's firm is thinking about purchasing a big building downtown, but they've gotten a little skittish about the seller, so they asked us to look into it. Chuck was going that way, anyway, so he went to meet the person. He also took his laptop. He was going to go to a nearby coffee shop afterward and run a computer check on the seller if he seemed suspicious."

"Well, that sounds harmless enough."

"Yes," Sarah agreed, but also shaking her head a little, "but you know my husband…"

"True. He can't stay in the car—and he can't keep from touching things that interest him…" Morgan smiled pointedly at Sarah. Her slip-up in Mary's hospital room had become a running gag and had made its way through all of Team Bartowski. (They all still thought of themselves that way.)

Sarah sighed, both at the at-her-expense joke, and the truth of it. Her Chuck. "I'll call him in a few minutes. Casey was supposed to meet him there."

"Say, we were thinking that maybe we could all get together for olive-free pizza tonight," Alex noted, "Would you guys want to?"

"Sure—but why don't we meet at our place, that way Molly can go to her own bed when she gets tired?"

"Great. How is the little beauty?"

"Talkative and active. She still can't say tons of things clearly, but she wants to talk so much she is making rapid progress. I think Chuck could listen to her call him 'daddy' all day long—or he would if he could keep up with her. Some days keeping up with her is like keeping up with a babbling cheetah." Sarah sighed and shook her head but happily.

"Well, we will see you tonight. Can we invite Mom and Dad?"

"Sure. They are always invited. Besides, John is just in the apartment next door."

"True," Alex agreed, "but not for much longer. He's going to move in with Mom after the wedding." Sarah nodded. She was so happy for John—and for Kathleen.

"Speaking of weddings," Alex continued, turning her face a bit to the side and looking askance at Sarah, "aren't you and Chuck going to have one soon—one that the rest of us can attend? And aren't you planning a honeymoon after that, now that the business is up and running?" Alex's tone was playful. "And won't I be a bridesmaid?"

"Chuck blabbed." Sarah was looking at Morgan. He was looking at his shoes again.

"Yes, we are starting to plan all that. We will announce it once we have a date and location. It'll be in a few weeks. It will be a very simple ceremony."

"Will Bryce and Carina come?"

"They plan to—as long as everything is ok for traveling with the baby at that point in her pregnancy."

"So she decided to keep it?"

"It sure looks that way. She's still cagey. But she's arranged a transfer _after_ her maternity leave. She'll be working as a Federal Marshal, doing Witness Protection details. It'll mean no undercover work, less danger, less foreign travel. She seems really excited about it, about everything."

"Including Bryce?" Morgan's tone showed that he still was wary of Chuck's old friend.

"Including Bryce. Evidently, he moved from the guest room to Carina's room a few weeks ago. And he is very excited about the baby."

"Still seems like an odd couple to me…" Morgan trailed off.

Alex jabbed him in the ribs. "You know, Morgan, I admit, she's taller than me and leggier, but you still traded up. I'm a pocket Venus. You know that better than anyone. Besides, doesn't she think your name is _Martin_?" Alex's tone was playful but with an unmistakable undertone of warning.

Morgan grinned at her—his love for her showing not only in his grin but also in the way he stood next to her. "Well, let's just say Carina makes an impression—but I've gotten over it."

"Right," Alex drawled. "C'mon, Martin."

Sarah's phone vibrated. She had a text. Probably Chuck. "See you two tonight then?"

They both nodded and headed out of the office, teasing one another about something else but Sarah caught only their tone, not their words.

The text wasn't from Chuck. It was from her dad. She hadn't heard from him in nearly two years. Of course, that was not new. Since she had joined the CIA they had only had sporadic contact. His text told her he coming into town and wanted to see her.

Sarah sighed out loud. Her father, her father, her father. To say that their relationship was complicated was to _name_ the problem, not shed real light on it. She loved him; he was her dad. Still, he had made such a mess of her family's life, of himself, of her, of her mom. He seemed incapable really of acknowledging it.

He would say he was sorry—he was good at that. And he wasn't lying when he said it, not exactly anyway. No, he said it sincerely. But the sincerity was momentary. It never lasted. So it never translated into change.

It was the secret of his success as a con man. Her dad never lied _in_ the moment, synchronically; he lied _across_ moments, diachronically. He had some strange character flaw that allowed him to hide from himself the fact that the promise he was making was one he would not keep. As he promised, he somehow had the full momentary complement of intentions and plans required to be sincere. But then it all evaporated—what had seemed solid even to him became nothing but a vapor.

As an agent, Sarah knew that the best lies were always truth-adjacent. She and Chuck had spent one evening talking idly about why that was so. One reason, they decided, was because the nearness of truth made it easier to be believable in the lie.

A second reason was that the nearness of the truth also made it easier to remember the lie. Remembering complete fiction turns out to be hard, particularly under pressure. It was analogous to the difference between remembering a quotation and remembering word salad, nonsense. The first is easier—even if the quotation is much longer than the word salad—because the first makes sense, can be paraphrased. Word salad makes no sense. It can't be paraphrased. (Chuck had come up with the word salad analogy. Leave it to the programmer to have oddball thoughts about language!)

But her dad was able to do more. He was able in some strange way temporarily to con _himself_ in the midst of his cons. He got others to believe because he did. He did—for a minute. But that meant he did not believe. It was a bizarre form of self-division. She had told Chuck a long time ago to trust her but not believe her. She knew when she said it how paradoxical it sounded. But she now knew it had a lot to do with her time with her dad. He was, in his weird way, believable but untrustworthy. Sarah had wanted Chuck to know that although she couldn't then tell him the truth and would be required to tell him lies, she was trustworthy.

In her kinder moments toward her dad, she recognized that his problem was something that could have—had he developed the capacity in a different way—been a strength. Her dad was a dreamer, a complete and serious dreamer. He could believe what he said because he could wholly immerse himself in a dream. He could do that without losing track of the fact that it was a dream. He was like a fiction writer who wrote in the temporary belief that his created world was real—while never forgetting that it was not.

Her dad was a dreamer—an evasive dreamer. He was impossible to pin down. Jack Newsome was impossible to pin down to a time, a place, an emotion, or a truth.

Her phone vibrated a second time. This time it was Chuck. He told her he was with the seller and that the seller seemed like a nice guy. Jackson Armitage was his name.

Chuck ended the text with a heart emoticon. She sent one back.

Well, good.

That was one thing she didn't need to worry…Shit. Jackson. _Jack_. Armitage was one of her dad's aliases. He didn't use it often. It had been years since Sarah had thought of it. Chuck had just met his father-in-law. Shit. Jack wasn't just coming to town, he was in town.

Sarah had met her father-in-law when he emerged from the darkness to cram himself into her Porsche with Chuck and her. Sarah met her mother-in-law when Leader kidnapped Sarah and she woke up bound in Leader's bunker. Chuck met Emma when they were trying to keep her and Molly from Fulcrum agents.

Sarah had hoped to have some handle on the meeting between Chuck and her father when it happened. Sigh.

She texted Chuck.

 _Keep Mr. Armitage talking. Take him to the coffee shop and have him tell you more about the building and the finances. Don't let him leave. I am going to pick up Molly and we will meet you there. 30 minutes._

 _Love you more than I can say._

Sarah grabbed her bag. She could already feel the familiar anger and frustration that meetings with her father brought on. But she was also excited—a little bit, a skoosh. He was her dad, after all, after all of it. She loved him. And she wanted him to know his son-in-law and his granddaughter. She waved at Kathleen as she headed out.

"See you tonight!"

Sarah Bartowski, the detective, got in her car to drive to the daycare and from there to Chuck.

As she pulled out, she turned on the latest music mix Chuck had made for her. She drove away to the sound of The Temper Trap's "Down River".

* * *

A/N2 This Epilogue is, in part, a pastiche of the introduction to the first book of the _Alfred Hitchcock and The Three Investigators_ series, _The Secret of Terror Castle_. I bow deeply to the author of that series, Robert Arthur. The entire series is available for free online.

Several readers have asked for a 'bibliography' of Cables, a list of the books, poems, plays, etc. that are mentioned in it or that played a role in it, stylistically or thematically. I am working on that. If you would like one, just drop me a PM. It'll probably be a week or so before it is finished.

By the way, _The Dreamer Evasive_ is the title of Apartment's album, the album that features one of my favorite Chuck songs, "Fall Into Place", a song I would like you to associate with the end of this story, as well as The Temper Trap's song.

As I exit stage left, some terrific writers are entering stage right. _Grayroc_ and _WvonB_ have started new stories.

I am going to go make myself a cup of coffee (black as midnight on a moonless night) and do some reading…

Drop me a final thought-a review or a PM or a favorite!

Bye, all!


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